


Programs

by SpenName



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpenName/pseuds/SpenName
Summary: (Pre-War AU) Five Cybertronians go about their day-to-day life under the crumbling rule of the Autobot Overlords.
Kudos: 2





	Programs

Another Constellation – Iacon

Giant mechanical soldiers marched through Iacon.

Many millions of years ago, civil war raged between the forces of the heroic Autobots and the brutal Decepticons for control of the planet Cybertron. For centuries, the planet was split—until the day came when a band of heroes would rise to defeat the Decepticon menace. These new Autobot warriors battled valiantly in the name of honour; their courageous exploits bringing hope and glory to a beleaguered war-torn planet and inspiring countless generations of robots yet to come online. 

These heroes would thus take the mantle of Overlords and rebuild their kingdom from the ashes of their enemies’ fallen cityscapes. They planted the seed in Iacon and watched the vines of their sovereignty stretch to the farthest reaches of Styx. It became the core civilization responsible for space-travel, matter-transfers, instant communication grids, and leaping advancements in alternate forms on Cybertron. Though there are only five Overlords remaining, over 20% of the planet’s known population pledged their allegiance to the Autobot Overlords. The rest were tantamount to beasts—turbofoxes and the like—, and had been cast into Cybertron’s ancient Underworld beneath the surface.

So, giant mechanical soldiers marched through Iacon. Many of them freshly minted military frames. Vestiges of the last military boom commissioned by the heads of state. Many of these fresh forms were rarely celebrated and eager for the positive attention. And few were old enough to have seen the war. And it was Remembrance Day. 

Transformers of varying forms and sizes gathered in the streets to watch as military-grade robots raised their red banners and paraded their ebony weapon emplacements. The aged towers that surrounded them, once golden spires indicative of the planet’s era, had degraded into a rustic bronze. The heat of Cybertron’s mechanical sun, Solus, glazed over the city in her pilgrimage across the planet, and in turn, reflected a crimson Autobot glow that beamed softly upon the march. Vendors sold fuel sticks and servings of oil by the barrel. Reporters chattered endlessly into camera drones. A songstress transformed into a sound system and began to cycle through the Overlords’ personal anthems. Drivers and delivery-mechs cursed at the street block-offs as Guardian Robots hovered overhead. Gazing through their plexi-glass facemasks in perpetual vigilance.

Located at the march’s mid-section was Overlord Glad’s mobile platform. He was slouched upon his crimson sigil-shaped throne, guarded by his colony of dark, prowling mecha panthera. Some so ancient they had no humanoid form of their own. The Overlord himself had the silver-helm and sharp endo-bone structure that forever marked him as the ancient imperator of his youth, though the age in his once spectacular frame was evident. Many of his limbs had become shard-like and atrophied. Patches of clear, see-through gaps marked his limbs and torso. His red, sigil shaped throne could be seen peeking its maudlin face between the cracks of his living carcass like rust. The other Overlords had failed to make an appearance, which had become commonplace over the centuries. The Overlords were some of the oldest living mechanoids on Cybertron, and it was clear that some of their physical wrecks could not possibly sustain the mobility. Those that could were simply apathetic. Or forgot. There were few who had seen as much as they had seen. And Transformers were never immortal. 

The march had jammed traffic to the upset of many on-the-go transports and office-mechs trying in vain to reach their destinations and complete their deadlines. No thanks to this was the existence of a broken-down truck trailer in the middle of the Supremis Bridge—arcing directly above the street corner where the march was taking place. 

Traffic-goers had been forced to transform, and step around – awkwardly, because there was no easy way to do something like this—the trailer as a mechanic worked on its unhinged axle in the middle of the road. The driver stood with his hands on the bridge’s railings, watching the march as some attempt to drone out the belching of congested, irritated traffic boxing him in. 

It had not been the first time his truck trailer broke down on him mid-transit, yet he couldn’t blame anyone but himself. You volunteer for a job like this you need to consider the repercussions. If his union had the funding, they would be able to afford new trailer units entirely. Now, the driver was blocking traffic, on a holiday, and his delivery of protective gear for the energy processing plant was going to be late. Dion wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. He and Ariel had already gone on about stopping at the refuelling station for a few drinks, but Orion Pax couldn’t make it thanks to his double shift. Orion checked his communicube, frowned, and then stared at the vid-screen hanging from a crimson spire overhead. 

An announcer reported on the events occurring below in a flat, distant tone of voice: “Now approaching main street is our members of Iacon’s own Centuriate Council. These brave mechs earned their recognition for their valour in combat. They now raise their arms for their friends and flamilias who courageously died in battle.”

“What a load of scrap metal.”

Orion’s eyes drifted from the monitor screen to his go-to tool-and-die mechanic, who had been attaching a set of replacement wheels to his trailer unit with a ratchet.

“You’re not much a fan of Remembrance Day, are you?”

“I was obviously talking about your rear axle here,” he whacked the side of Pax’s trailer hitch, then quickly drew himself back, afraid that doing so may inadvertently cause the entire unit to collapse. Confident he was in the clear, he returned to his work, “It’s got the durability of a toothpick, you know,” 

“Any way I can help?”

“Uhp-bup-bup! Ask me that again if you want your mouth-plate permanently misaligned. I don’t pay myself to let other bots do my job for me, and I’m not about to start.” Ratchet waved his ratchet at Pax and Pax stepped back. “But to answer your question, no, I’m not a fan. No one says they’re a “fan” of Remembrance Day. That’s like saying you’re a fan of famine PSAs or watching protoforms cry.”

The ambulance, Orion found, was far from bad at what he did—in fact, he was the best tool-and-die mech in Iacon that he knew. He just didn’t seem to like what he did very much at all, and Orion felt sorry for that. He knew plenty of bots that only did their jobs because they were good at it—built for it— and conducted it for the sake of work. 

Ratchet’s arms and chest were stained with dark lubricants from his workshop, giving off a rustic smell of engine oil and chemicals. Metals old and new. He had been physically assimilated to a treaded one-box repair bay from the waist down, his tools splayed out in front of him for ease of access. It increased his size somewhat, but it was the specified form required for maximum efficiency in his field. Orion was amazed by robots who could separate into modules. The idea of being conscious within multiple individual bodies was unimaginable for someone like him. Any answers he would receive would be approximate to the answer someone who lost their eyes would give you in response to what it’s like to see nothing at all—not even black: ‘Close your left eye. Now what do you see out of your left eye?’ Profound, but impossible to grasp.

“It’s history, Ratchet. All the greatest Autobot leaders learned from history. Like Overlord Supremis, or Gozenarch Blade.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I bet they like Remembrance Day.”

“I bet they like watching protoforms cry.”

Orion turned his back to Ratchet and began surveying the march. Some elders from the war were beginning their slow, laborious march. “You were there, Ratchet. I would have expected you to be down there marching alongside your fellow vets.”

“I’d sooner be a people doctor than a vet. Besides, I’ve got better things to do with my spare time— like fixing your busted trailer chassis for example.” He withdrew a crusted servo from his work and gave it a restless shake. “Being an ambulance in the war was just a job for me back then. All I ever did was move sick people around. Now I just remake things.” 

“You bots deserve some recognition for it. More than the rest of us cargo haulers, at least.”

“I recognize them.” 

“And what about the Elite Guard over in Styx? Those guys are risking their lives over there. If anyone deserves their own holiday it’s them.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all ought to deserve. A holiday.”

Orion realized he might have pushed his angle a little too far and decided to drop the subject. At least Ratchet was unapologetic about his thoughts and feelings. Orion envied that sometimes. The truck turned and stared out across the sprawling crowds and formations below. People were laughing in the streets and taking photos. It really was a celebration for the survivors more-so than it was a monument for the dead, though this did not particularly bother him to the degree he would have considered it to. The living deserved to be remembered now more than ever. The older centuries were beginning to pass out of view, and some triple-changers were being shown off. Orion admitted it was beginning to feel like some overbudgeted toy ad, although he knew it wasn’t healthy to think this way. 

He spotted a gathering at the peak of the march. Picketers. Insurgents that would attend events like this where it typically wasn’t the time or place. Many of these rebels came off as pseudo-philosophers, attention seekers and deadbeats from what Orion had seen. Bots that thought the Overlords invented the concept of traffic and vehicular alt-modes to regulate people’s lives, or that the military should be dismantled entirely. They weren’t all like that, of course. There were some who lost their jobs to overpopulation and famine. Although the homeless empties didn’t typically have the energy to participate in anything whatsoever. Orion had to admit, the thought of losing his job and becoming functionally inept was a very real threat to him, and many others he knew. Now more than ever if he didn’t deliver his shipment on time. The last thing he wanted was to lose himself along with his function. To lose Ariel and Dion. To be left behind. To crawl back to House Pax. He was becoming restless. The lurch in his power-core and rancid puff from his stacks suddenly wrenched Orion’s attention away from the march and to the distracting light of his communicube. 

Messages: (0). 

The lack of responses from neither Ariel, nor Dion, was only frustrating Orion even further. What could they have possibly been up to while he was gone?

Ratchet let out a salty laugh, “Another young bot hardwired to his comms tech.”

Orion clumsily shoved his communicube back into his belt, “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to reach my people about all...” he gestured vaguely to his trailer, “… this. I’m going to need to petition an order for sturdier trailer units as soon as they get back to me.”

“No, really?” With another crank of his wrench, Ratchet completed attaching the new wheel to Orion’s mobile trailer unit and began grinning sardonically. “I thought this was somebody else’s massive traffic violation I’ve been remaking all this time.” He then detached his main-body from his repair-bay and stood on two legs before the dockworker. “So, when’s the party start?”

“Never, at this rate,” Orion said. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ratchet slapped the side of the trailer and huffed. “This hunk of rust ought ‘a be older than the Liege. You bots are so overdue for a materials’ upgrade it’s ridiculous. Matrix knows it would free up my schedule for once.”

Orion tapped into his wrist and sent a data transfer to Ratchet’s account. “It’s hasn’t been easy. We’ve been cutting a lot of hours lately. I’m technically covering a double right now: shipment drop-off and pick-up, both. I suppose the Council simply hasn’t had the time to pay attention to us blue-collar types.”

Ratchet raised a single digit and directed Orion’s glance with it. “Take a look over the side of this bridge and you’ll see what they’ve been so busy with.”

Orion followed his digit over the side of the bridge, and towards the newly developed military-frames below. He grinned. “You sound like my progenitor.”

Pax’s thoughts were consumed by the daunting jet-warrior that tore past his line of sight. One of the freshly formed members of the Overlord’s air security had transformed and descended toward the march below, mere metres away from Supremis Bridge. The sheer mass of the sharp, gangly frame completely blackened Orion’s vision. It was like an eclipse. No, Orion realized: it was like blinking. Others joined him from above, bellowing massive gusts of wind as they joined their kind in the streets below. 

Terror. Power. Monstrous. 

Despite having stood in the shadow of a Guardian Robot, Orion only then seemed to have been conscious of his size and vulnerability; and in that moment, he found that he coveted the capacities of these military behemoths. 

Ratchet perked up, having not immediately registered their descent. “What? What’d I miss?”

Orion was momentarily distracted but quickly gathered himself. A bright magenta figure disappeared into the crowds as security mechs controlled the excited insurgents below. The ancient mech seemed entirely disinterested by the affair. One of the Overlord’s praetorian guards and chief agents, Ravage, had shot an object out of the sky from the sniper-attachment on his back. Ribbons of black liquid trailed behind each individual part of the object as it popped and dropped to the ground. Robots retreated in shock as they began to recognize the familiar shapes from the object’s debris and proceeded to clear away from the area. The march failed to stop moving, and many robots ahead of the scene remained where they were, interpreting the cries of confusion down the road as cries of exuberance. The praetorian frowned at this, and then looked up. Ravage had somehow locked eyes with Orion, who had been standing miles overhead on the Supremis Bridge. Orion quickly broke his gaze from Ravage and faced his mechanic.

“I think some backup security was just activated. Someone just tried to throw a severed turbofox head at Overlord Glad.”

\---

Remote Control – Iacon 

The single vid-screen crinkled with static against the simplistic rustic walls of the processing plant’s workshop. The light from the chamber’s windowpane obscured some of the text on the screen, but it was clear to the plant staff what had occurred. The two staff members operating in the workshop had only been paying half a mind to the event’s proceedings before then, as they were busy with meeting their quota. Even still, they had enough muscle-memory to complete their tasks in their sleep, and they couldn’t help but react to the sheer absurdity of the newscast.

Skyblast, a tall, white and red jet, clapped his servos ecstatically. “Ohhh, the lad! The absolute mad man! I can’t believe he actually went through with it!” 

“The guy has a total death wish,” Arcee said, admittedly impressed. “The next time I see him I’m going to have to break his legs so he doesn’t try anything that stupid again.”

Skyblast grabbed a metallic cube from a shelf and brought it to his chopping station. His hard-light saw glowing a bright crimson. “Well, he’s your friend.” 

“I know, that’s why I’m allowed to break his legs.” Arcee turned back to her workstation. “I bet you the moment of silence will be postponed because of this.”

Not that they had the time for it. Their schedule was packed tight, and there was no way for them to stop without failing to meet their first quota. The previous cube Skyblast had cut open was now being drained through several interconnected tubes that transferred the energy-matter into a larger glass box. Skyblast had sawed open the cube—ensuring that it was cut so that all the specific innards had been segmented correctly, and safely, for draining. There were multiple sources of energy on Cybertron—most of them lost. Hunting, mining, and livestock were the predominant ways of acquiring such energy, and Arcee dealt with all three. Turbofoxes and other beastly carcasses were shipped in from the wildlands of Cybertron’s Underworld to be shaved, distilled, unpolluted, drained, and melted into consumable fuel by the staff. Energy crystals—bulbous tumours of light clotted in Cybertron’s hyper-complex circulatory system were another fine source to be distilled into a drinkable substance. Livestock was acquired through the careful, controlled application of Matrix energy—metallic boxes designed with the biological systems to generate energy and enrich metals with, but with no brain-module or life of their own. Each option required precise carving, and a gentle touch, as biomechanical fuel in an undiluted state was hazardous and could become explosive. The cuts had to be sawed precisely, as to not disrupt the livestock cube’s inner mechanisms and cause a leak of undistilled energy. There were a lot of maths involved, which Arcee found herself assisting the other plant workers with. There were other forms of energy that could be consumed, which the plant did not specialize in. Electricity was one form of charging a Cybertronian’s systems. Gasses and radiation were others, but these required different methods of containment.

Skyblast fidgeted slightly as he finished carving the livestock cube and passed it over to Arcee for draining. It was a slow, careful process, but the duo wasted no time. Resources in the permissibly traversable Underworld were growing thin, and the plant staff needed to ensure that the fuel that was obtained was made readily available for dissemination to the public as quickly as physically possible. 

“Are we really going to be here all day?” Skyblast moaned, “I was going to upload a vid to the Grand Conversation tonight, but I probably won’t have the time to edit or film it.”

“Chin up, you’re supposed to hold back on your uploads so that your fans get withdrawal symptoms from your hiatuses. Besides, as long as you don’t look at the clock we’ll be done before you know it!”

Skyblast tilted his head to the side and hummed, “Well—we do kick ass.”

She raised a digit, “Language, though.”

An intercom from upstairs sounded and Blastarm’s gruff voice filtered into the processing room. “Yo, you guys see buddy toss that severed head at Overlord Glad?” 

Skyblast leaned into his wrist communicator, “Yeah, what a legend.”

“The sheer disrespect, man.”

Arcee leaned over to Skyblast and spoke into his wrist, “How’s the crystal distilling going Blastarm?”

“Alright, alright, I hear you. Back to work.”

“Be safe!” She called, pressing the filled cube into a compressed sheet of glowing light. 

“Heard.”

Carve. Drain. Load. Distill. Perfect. Store.

“Y’know,” Skyblast said, “It’s not like we can really choose to stay safe doing this when we’ve only got enough protective gear for the half of us.”

Arcee frowned through her face mask. “I told you to wear mine.”

“Come on, you know my frame is way more jacked than yours. If Signal Flare knew I was hogging it for myself over someone like you he’d eat me.” 

Arcee knew he was right, he was jacked. But she still didn’t like it. They were supposed to receive their order of new protective gear in the morning, but the shipment was late. Likely because of the march. They couldn’t afford to postpone the work, so Tollenus had asked her to keep things running. They managed. She just hoped that Tollenus wouldn’t try to cut costs and cancel future orders for gear in case the extra steps in safety were deemed redundant. 

“True. You’re also the social media star here, so I guess that would reasonably make you the real badass of this place.”

“Language.”

“You should title your next video that.” She drifted her hand from left to right in front of her, as if she were reading the words off a billboard. “'Skyblast: viral athlete that does energy processing unprotected and is also built as hell: somebody better call a veterinarian because those razor-pythons are sick!’”

“Hey! Not bad!” Skyblast quickly took a mental note and saved it to his hard drive, “I think I’m gonna use that one.”

Carve. Drain. Load. Distill. Perfect. Store.

Arcee glanced at an undistilled cube Skyblast head left at the edge of the table. It was so far off it was practically hovering in the air, and could fall over any minute.

“Hey, watch that, eh?”

“I’m watching it.”

“I’m just saying be careful. It’s technically in the process of an exothermic reaction. The slightest brush and it could blow your face off.”

Skyblast stared at her.

“Sorry, you know I just get paranoid about stuff being slightly off counters. If it was a cup of oil, I wouldn’t be any different. You know I know you’ve got this.”

“Seriously, Arcee, do you know how long I’ve been doing this?” 

“A month?”

“Yeah, and I’m already the man.”

Skyblast grabbed the cube.

His hand slipped.

He hectically fumbled the cube as it dropped meters above the ground. It was like a punch in the gut—the air, and the rest of her voice had been knocked out of her. She raised her hands in front of her face and braced for the blast. It was all she could do. The room was self-repairing, but much of their equipment was not. More importantly—Skyblast…

The jet quickly tucked in his wings and lowered his body to catch it, centimetres from the floor.

Skyblast raised his head. He was smiling. “Hah, made you flinch.”

Arcee stared at him, deadpanned, “This is why I hunt turbofoxes in my spare-time Skyblast. It’s all because of you. You, Skyblast. You.”

Skyblast proceeded to distil the cube. “Arcee, the only reason I don’t call you a nag is because I know it comes from a place of love. I’d rather be around that than Tollenus when he is the way he is. The guy never gives me a break.”

Arcee wagged a profound digit. “Well, you know my philosophy: ‘think not’ is my first commandment; ‘sleep when you can’ is my second.”

“I’m surprised you even bothered to research this stuff. I just move things around with my hands.”

“Flattery’ll get you fired. The only reason I know any of this is from my Cronum applications.”

“Right. How’s that going by the way?”

She chose not to answer his question, recalling the rejection letter she had received earlier that morning. 

Carve. Drain. Load. Distill. Store.

“It’s a shame you don’t have any eyewear,” she said instead. “You can lose your vision from a splash of this stuff.” Could be worse, Arcee reckoned, could be Kaon. The dust and pollution generated from all the construction there was practically toxic.

“I’ll get new eyes, then. Which reminds me,” Skyblast paused what he was doing, reached into his belt, pulled out a stylish black visor, and clipped it onto his face. “We’re good now.”

Long hours inside had forced the workers to have their fun where they could. Because they were ahead of schedule, Arcee decided, with more than enough enthusiasm, to join in. “Oh damn, oh geez. I didn’t know it was Visor Team hours!” Arcee reached into her own belt and pulled a pair of shades, which she haphazardly placed over her mask. “Check it.”

Skyblast picked up the last undistilled cube of the batch and tilted his head back to exclaim. “Ay!”

“Visor Team!”

The doors opened, and Signal Flare entered. “Hey, have you guys heard from—oh damn!” He, too, placed a stylish black visor over his eyes. “Visor Team!”

“Ay!” Skyblast and Arcee exclaimed in unison.

Blastarm entered next, also wearing a pair of identical shades. “Did somebody call… Visor Team?”

Skyblast flung his hands into the air, dropping the cube he was carrying. “Ay!”

Arcee saw the ground before she saw the blast. She felt the heat, too. The armour had protected her from it, for the most part, but the blast had ripped her light frame away from her workstation and sent her barreling across the room. She landed on her head, snapping it sideways and cracking loose the joints in her neck. She hit the ground hard, and for a moment, all she could see or feel through her aches were a series of perception defects. They say when a Cybertronian dies it’s just an eternity of TV-static. Arcee hoped not, because that was what she happened to have been seeing at that moment. Black tendrils entered her static vision and swayed back and forth. Through the static, she saw floating faces, five of them. The details she couldn’t make out, but she could tell from the fear melting down her torso that they were the Overlords. Sneering at her. Judging her. She could see them now. Prestigious. Skybreaker. Aleph. Supremis. Glad…

Then she dreamt of turbofoxes. 

Arcee woke to the sight of Skyblast’s shattered visor, laying on the ground in front of her. The floor felt cool against her cheek. A quick reprieve from the heat of the blast. Coolant had begun to spray, dousing any residual fires and preventing any potential chain-reactions. She had been offline for two minutes.

“Arcee!” Blastarm’s bellows sounded cracked, but Arcee couldn’t tell for sure if that was from his own vocalizer or from the ringing of her still-recovering audio-receptors. She saw Skyblast, who had been soundlessly curled on the floor, trembling and grabbing at his face. Arcee thought she saw what could have been a nose in the corner of her vision, then quickly looked away. Chunks of his frame littered the floor around him. Blastarm and Signal Flare were standing there, like protoforms staring at their new hands. 

Carve. Drain. Load. Distill. Perfect. Store.

She dragged herself onto her feet, felt the searing pain in her neck, grabbed her head, and snapped it back into place with a quick jerk of her wrists. She jabbed an index finger at Signal Flare. “Grab a med-kit!”

\---

Interlude I

Interview with a Mask Seller – Kaon, an undetermined point in time

The cultural investigator was a busy mech these days. He had been assigned to interview the people of Kaon following the recent structural developments occurring within the province’s borders. He was familiar with the area and had just recently been working in the area on a separate project for the past stellar cycle. He resided in a hab-complex at the peak of Kaon’s dead end where he would step out with his morning mug of oil to interview dozens of locals. They had the choice to keep their identities hidden, but many of them, unsurprisingly, desired to see their names appear in the public domain as if appearing in his article would somehow make them famous. He didn’t know how to break it to them. It was raining over Kaon when the investigator bumped into the most informative client of his career. They had met some time before, under different circumstances. They were both changed somewhat. 

This interviewee, at the time of their most recent meeting, appeared homeless (though this was not something the investigator thought to inquire about). From what he had heard in the news, and from what he knew about the robot, the investigator needed to watch his step when interviewing a figure of such notoriety. But it was his job to know the truth about what was happening in Kaon, and this Kaonian may have been the only one who could give it to him. 

He found his interviewee sitting at a small, makeshift stand in the dead end’s dense, bustling market area. The interviewee had a row of masks splayed out upon the tarp, to be sold in exchange for credit and furnace parts. Although they wouldn’t accept shanix for whatever reason. Many of the merchants were clothed to hide their identities. Not all of them legal citizens. Regardless of their backgrounds, they would all be required to move as one collected force if the street sweepers came. All these different cultures and mechanoids of varying origins and degrees of morality, helping each other to their feet; carrying each other’s baggage as one tightly knitted community, despite their general animosity towards each other within any other context. His meetings with the interviewee were brief, and out of the public eye. They would huddle in small, seedy oil shops and mutter in hushed tones under the vibration of construction; often ducking into tunnels and alleyways to avoid Kaon’s militia. The city was perhaps the most dangerous and crime-ridden in all of Overworld Cybertron, and had been for some time. The Greater Kaonian Area (GKA) was populated by low-income communities who relied on other means of getting by. At times, these dusty, trash-strewn streets seemed wilder than the Underworld.

After some pestering, the interviewee would finally admit to having written a complete, autobiographical account of what had occurred to Kaon, and agreed, though dispassionately, to send it to the investigator for his assignment as a personal favour. After some conversation regarding the tool of which this mask seller was trying to forge from the furnace parts, the investigator returned to his hotel and sat at his desk. The file had already been transferred. 

It was massive, enough so that the investigator would have refused to open it if he cared enough about whether it would crash his work terminal or not. The file was titled, “To put this into perspective for you, this all began on Remembrance Day.cyb.”

The investigator put on some music—his favourite kind, jazz— and opened the file. 

\---

Autobiography of a Mask Seller – Kaon, Today

To put this into perspective for you, this all began on Remembrance Day, after the turbofox head and just before the incident at the House of Prime.

I was kneeling before our Matrix Flame; a bright, dignified, blaze in the center of our blackened, rectangular chamber. Behind it was this massive, engulfing windowpane that exposed us to Kaon’s rust-stormed city scape. You could hear the rumbling of construction outside, neighbours fighting through the walls, and the sounds of sirens wailing faintly like distant phantoms.

I was flamed in this chamber during the final years of the war—when the Overlords were already in power, but there were still some Decepticons who hadn’t been cast into the Underworld yet. Like every one of the Blade, I was trained for combat to defend my House and country. As a lictor, I forfeited my seat on the Centuriate Council to guard the real heroes of our war. Our Head of House—our Matris Flamilias – helped build this city and expand it into the province you know of today. Just as each House has its own rituals and targets of worship, we worshipped the Warrior God, The Ultimate Warrior, the Blade, and I was a devout. We are one of the old flamilias—our leader held a seat on the Kaonian Senate—her face printed on the 25.0 shanix. At the time, it seemed as though we were the last noble House in Kaon, aside from the Overlords and their higher magistrates. We perceived them as Ultimate Warriors incarnates—robots who crushed their enemies and proved their purpose to Cybertron and her glories. The Ultimate Warrior held them in their favour and rewarded them with guardianship of the mortal realm. That is the general belief, even if I know how that sounds now that I actually type it out. Even still, we were loyal to the Overlords and were proud to identify as Autobots as a result. Out Matris Flamilias, Gozenarch Blade, had worked with them for as long as anyone could remember. 

I had been painting masks in front of the Flame that programmed me at the time. Sixteen of us lived in the House of the Blade—and while this can be considered a lot for some states, it really wasn’t for Kaon. Our cathedral was tall enough to house us all. Its steeple always pointed to the sky like a sword drawn before combat. I dipped my metallic brush into a small pot of red dye and painted tendrils across the slender metallic face splayed out before me. Some of these masks I had carved to have faceplates, visors, goggles, mandibles, whatever I felt like messing around with that day. Some had a design over the brow that would clip on to their helms like head crests and chevrons.

Self-marketing aside, they were not tribute to anything. Unless you are of the belief that all creations are threaded through us by the muses of the One—which I do happen to believe in myself. I had already made my offerings, recited code, and engaged in my own moment of silence in tribute to our fallen warriors of the past per the customs of Remembrance Day. This, however, the facial paint, the patterns, everything, was my own thing entirely. The broadcasts about the event had focused almost exclusively on the turbofox, so I decided to stop listening at the risk of angering myself further. Rather, designing facial decals on masks was my own hobby, and I had yet to meet anyone else in Kaon who practiced the same type of art. Our faces can take so many shapes and say so many things, and still never tell you the whole story, no matter what. And what is a mask made of metal but another face we may choose to exchange at will? That is the beauty of it.

I could sense them standing behind the door before they had even knocked. My processor was flamed with a slightly more complicated sense of electrical detection than most other Cybertronians. I could feel the sparks going off in Wraith’s head before she had even entered the Matrix Chamber. While I know some Cybertronians are never able to unlock this sense, I can only describe the sensation as something between taste and sight, but as shadows of those senses—and can occur at the same time as these senses as well. This isn’t a very apt description, and when Transformers with abilities I myself lack describe them to me I too, struggle to grasp it. 

Wraith had entered. There was another robot close behind her, just outside the door.

“You’re practicing your makeup in here?” Wraith asked, staring dispassionately at my work.

“If that is what you want to call it, then yes.”

“Gozenarch Blade wants to have a word with you.”

I could sense the familiar tangle of black wires behind her, and the sharp tips of my brush continued to carve red rivers across my masks. “Then she may speak to me herself.”

Wraith’s mind crackled and wisped like a cy-gar. Most of us had lived together for some time. Only my fellow lictor had been adopted into the flamilias tens of years ago after emigrating from a post in the Underworld.

Wraith smiled, but her brow was drooping with rage. It was too easy to read the people I lived with sometimes. “Let me tell you something, Windblade: nobody cares that you’ve been around longer than everyone else. Just do what you’re told so I don’t have to go back and tell Gozen you’re playing the blasphemer.”

“Do not speak to me about blasphemy, child!” The black wires made themselves known to us as Gozenarch Blade entered the chamber. I knew she was there, I still don’t really know what she was doing sending Wraith in first. She towered over Wraith as she rasped at her. “I would smite the sun if it insulted me!”

She was an ancient obsidian-gold warrior with bladed spikes outlining her silhouette from the neck down. The crimson patterns I had painted on her visor and faceplate had faded somewhat. She was from the generation that helped win the war and fostered our way of life all those centuries ago. A generation when bots like her were used to speaking in the garbled Decepticon tongue, and when names were almost impossible to pronounce with the fresher generations’ ever-developing frequencies. Every time I sensed her electrical impulses, I would see and taste those black wires. 

Her dark, expressionless visor set its gaze on me. “One of these days I’ll make you flinch. One of these days you won’t even notice me when I’m comin’. How do you keep getting away with it, I wonder?”

I bowed my head to her and stood. “Could be telepathy.”

“Hrrn, I need to be careful with you.”

Wraith’s door wings fluttered weakly, “Sorry, Gozen, did you send me here as a distraction for Windblade so that you could make her flinch? I thought you wanted me to tell her you—.”

Gozenarch raised a claw, “That will be all, Wraith.”

“You’re can’t be serious.”

“Are you deaf as well as petulant?” Her visor retracted into a thin line of yellow light. “Can’t you see I’m speaking to Windblade here? Are you going to leave? Or do you need a knife in the eye to get the point?”

Wraith lowered her head, transformed into her car-mode, and drove briskly out of the chamber, Gozen stepped closer towards my work. “I like what you’ve done here.” She knelt. “May I see this one?”

I nodded. 

She lifted one of my masks to her visor, perhaps to see better through her aged vision. “Astounding. You are better at this with each passing day. I’m shocked you can even focus with all the death forsaken noise outside.” She traced her finger along the creases of each mask, of each face. “Oh-hoh, I appreciate the resemblance to war paint on this one. Even the smell of it reminds me of physical combat— HAH!” She placed it gently down upon the tarp. “Promise me you’ll paint my face again when we return from my summons.”

“Of course,” I frowned, “‘Summons’?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re being summoned. I will explain. Subspace your work and follow me.”

We travelled down our house’s main hab-suite corridor. Gozen’s needle-like digits clasped tightly behind her back as she walked. The familiar sound of her fingertips clinking together like chimes against my audio-receptors. “I’m sorry about Wraith. But can you blame her? Did you—” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “did you see her door wings?”

“Oh, I know.”

She threw her claws into the air futilely, “What was she thinking?!”

“If you can’t fly, then you shouldn’t wear wings.”

“Using another Autobot’s anatomy as a hideous fashion statement—it’s undignified.”

“Problematic, even.”

Gozen shook with disgust. “Anyway, I received our summons from Overlord Aleph.”

That obviously caught my attention. I was more than interested in witnessing Kaon’s Overlord in person once more. It had been a long time since I had the honour. The last time might have been to assist with that workers’ strike a while back.

“Is this about that head that was thrown at Overlord Glad this morning?”

She waved a claw, “No, no, I think this is a different thing,” – and folded it into a fist. “Though it is likely beneath their interests, I would gladly travel to Iacon to hunt down the scum that had the ball-bearings to show that kind of disrespect on a national holiday. People like that are no better than those demons ravaging the Underworld.”

“Dishonourable idiots,” I said.

“Heathenistic bastards.” Gozenarch placed a hand on my shoulder. “You will accompany me, of course, as my lictor.”

Always.

A self-propelled chariot had rolled past us in a connecting hallway. 

“Hey!” Gozen snapped, “Charon!”

Charon transformed from his chariot-mode, approached, nodded to me, then bowed to Gozenarch. 

“What is this?!” the wires grew more tangled. She stepped into the spot where Charon had been momentarily and plucked a small can of oil off the floor that the chariot had dropped.

“Oh, Gozenarch, I sincerely—"

She smacked him upside of his head. “The House of the Blade is not your waste room! Thought I wouldn’t notice—HAH! Thought you could get away with it! You realize when you live under this roof you treat it with respect. Where is your dignity—pathetic excuse for a warrior!”

“I apologize, Gozenarch. It won’t happen again.”

“Now clean up this mess. And heed my warning well: if you do not take recycling seriously from this point on then I will consider you a personal traitor.” She waggled a lecturing digit at him as she spoke.

“Right away, Gozenarch.” 

I gave Charon a look through my modified faceplate. We didn’t need constant gratification. We were bred to weather storms. We were bred to weather Kaon. But it was always easier to have someone else there when you were being chewed out by Gozen. Granted, I admit that Gozen treated me better than the others. I was the first to be flamed under her guidance of our House— and I have known her the longest out of anyone in the flamilias. She was a mentor. An authority. A friend. Charon nodded in kind before dashing ridiculously to the sanitation closet.

Gozenarch gestured to the hab-suite in front of us. “Now, go inside and tell your fellow lictor it’s time to leave for the Temple of Aleph.”

“You always delegate to him through me. Why do you get so weird with him? He didn’t even originate here.”

Gozenarch sighed, “I can’t help myself.” she looked left, then right, then confided to me in a hush, “I find him perilously attractive, Windblade!” she grabbed my face, squishing my cheeks together in her grasp. “I can’t not be offensively coquettish when I speak with him. Do you understand? I can’t control these wiles of mine, Windblade I’m—I’m—” She began coughing violently into her fist, then wiped it against my chest and locked eyes with me once more. “I’m a wreck just thinking about him!”

There was something about this ancient being reacting with such youth to my partner lictor that I couldn’t help but find hilarious. “Some might think he’s a bit young for you, don’t you think?”

She released my face. “It’s his eyes, Windblade.”

“Which ones?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just go. I’ll be waiting in the shuttle.”

As Gozenarch took her leave, I knocked once on my partner’s doors, then entered. Worktables lined the perimeter of his hab-suite. A variety of tools, projects, and baubles were littered around the room. I had my masks, and my fellow lictor had his gadgets. He was hanging from the ceiling in his alternate mode. His arms slowly feeding the remains of some mechanimal into his mandibles.

“Tarantulas, we have a summons.”

He cut his web in surprise and landed hard on the back of his beast-carapace, coughing and hacking noisily as his eight legs thrashed against the floor.

“I’m eating!”

\-----

The Once and Future – The Underworld

Massive jaws punctured into the smaller robot’s face. It wailed muffled frequencies wailed as it thrashed its limbs against the jaws of the giant reptilian carnivore. It relented, finally, and slumped lifelessly within the great maw. Shrieks and howls were the life essence of the dense, metallic jungles of Cybertron’s Underworld. Metallic flora slowly expanded and retracted upon themselves as massive mechanical trees and reached towards the gargantuan illuminated ceiling of Cybertron’s outer layer. The partner of the slain ran, trembling claws gripped tightly around his ugly and jagged spear. The robot dashed across the forest-bed, trying to outpace the massive foot-stomps tearing behind him. Black and silver trees toppled as the massive beast’s tail swung back and forth. The runner screamed in his language: 

“101-allspark.//010://reboot—011010009!” 

The carnivore was metres away. Its head and jaws massive. Its frame covered in sharp, metallic knife-like feathers. The runner’s friend still draping out the side of the beast’s mouth. His tank cannon drooped to one side. His spear was still sticking out of the beast’s hide. The robot could only run, he had not refuelled in some time, and completing his transformation into his mining-vehicle mode would take too long. He could feel the carnivore’s hot breath down his neck and knew his story was done. 

The shadow of the carnivore fell upon him, and the beast leaped a full yard ahead of the robot. With a receptor-piercing howl, its body began to shift, transforming into a dark, hulking robot. In place of a face was a thin red strip of visor. His powerful legs became massive, bludgeoning arms. His saurian head a great, bulbous back-pack. The thing was closer to that of some savage, mechanical ogre than a regular robot. The giant unsheathed an impossibly large, red broadsword from its back. It was about the same length as the beast’s tail. From where the runner was standing, it almost seemed to have been as large as the wielder itself. 

The runner wailed passionately in his tongue, “destron.//:2020-01110//execute-8%-capacity-maximo—ttp.!”

The carnivore swung the blade, and in a single stroke ended the runner’s life.

It transformed once more into its tyrant lizard form and dug its maw into what was left of the prey. Among the winners, there was no room for the weak. Those typically got eaten.

Finished with its attackers, the beast continued its trek through the mechanical jungle of the Underworld. It lumbered clumsily through the shifting metal trees, oil dripping down his chin. The caws and howls of the jungle’s wildlife became apparent to him as the adrenaline faded from his system. 

Grimlock transformed into robot mode, finding it would be easier to navigate through the brush that way. The lights of Cybertron’s gargantuan circulatory system shone overhead through the cracks of the shifting, mechanical tree canopies, and the glow of translucent, silicon fungi lit the way for him as he advanced. He would make the other side if he kept moving forward. The only responsibility anyone had. Those bots that tried to spear him were likely Decepticons. Destron, Demon. Decepticon. Different names. All Weak. Sharp, insectoid, ancient-looking Transformers. None of the flat surfaces, or square bulk of his own frame. Supposed to be war-builds. Failed a long time ago. No room for them down here anymore. He last heard they had started to creep back onto the surface around Styx now, but the Underworld was filled with monsters. 

Small, quadrupeds sprouted treads and nosecones around him and drilled into the soft metals of the weathered jungle floor. Metallic cocoons hung from trees, only to unfurl into bat-like mechanoids and fly off with a thrust of their propulsion jets. Small, rocket-powered fairy-like creatures would transform mid-air into clamp-like devices and attach to the trees and other fauna to sap their nutrients. The Underworld. Natural Cybertron. The Old Cybertron before the Decepticons, the Convoys, and later the Overlords built their cities on top of it, was dynamic. Always changing, transforming, evolving, and adapting. Always challenging those who lived in it.

Grimlock’s visor thinned, annoyed at the jungle thickening around him. Almost purposefully so. The trees appeared to be transforming to reinforce the density in the direction Grimlock was trying to move. As he turned to move in another direction, the trees would once more shift and clack together into these dense patterns, blocking his way. 

He grunted, unsheathed his greatsword, and sliced cleanly through the trees, leaving silver metal ribbons in his wake. With each consecutive slash, spires toppled over, and Grimlock continued his struggling advanced through the onyx jungle; arms snapping and wailing with pain as he exerted himself. 

The ground rumbled, and Grimlock’s balance was momentarily interrupted. He planted his blade into the ground for support as the trees around him began to rearrange and take new shapes. Massive, mechanical roots ripped out of the ground around him and folded into the tree trunks. At the same time, rockets began to take shape at the stumps of these trees and ignite. Several creatures transformed and tucked themselves away into the metallic bark as each shifting spire began to levitate. Whatever remained either buried into metal or were eviscerated by the rockets’ flames. Grimlock held his ground, sword firmly in hand, and endured the pressure of the massive transformation occurring around him. The jungle rose, and as the aches in Grimlock’s processor ceased, he realized that the trees, in fact the jungle itself, had transformed into a single massive body that rocketed overhead, leaving Grimlock isolated in a flat field of metal that stretched as far as he could see. The entire jungle was a Transformer. It had sensed that Grimlock was hurting it and decided to move somewhere else. Grimlock frowned as it disappeared into the distance. It had become a black dot against the pink, pink sky; the glow of flowing currents of energy through hanging overhead tubes thousands of miles above.

Coward.

The humidity from the bright, overhead lights was slowing him down. It was hot down here. It seemed hotter in the Underworld than it was in the Overworld under Solus the Traveller’s light. He could see silver-blue mountains in the distance, which would make that the opposite direction of where he came from. He had briefly rested at a small village some miles back. Small, agricultural. Though they spoke different languages, Grimlock could figure what they would trade for lodging easily. Bandit scalps were their favourites. Apparently, they had been giving them trouble for some time. Raids and such. Grimlock had gone some time without a job, and he would need food, and time, if he wanted to emerge from this island he had been so carelessly banished to.

He didn’t miss working for the engineer and the rest. The Overlords had grown old and fat and weak in their power. Grimlock’s banishment to a remote island in the Underworld for future acquisitional work had made everyone happier. Ever since he destroyed his communicator, along with the rest of his possessions, he had been completely disconnected from his overseers. He worked for himself now, and he dared them to box him again. The only issue was finding someplace he could live and work without worrying about energy depletion. Even down here, it was difficult to find sources of energy that didn’t involve killing something, not that he minded so much. It was the benefit of having a beast-frame—they were designed to hunt and consume other life-forms for energy, rather than relying on other supplements.

After he had tracked, fought, and eaten the bandits that had threatened the community and snatched their helms, he had returned to find the village had already been razed to the ground. There were no remains of the mechs who lived there. It was as if their bodies had been taken. He should have known. They seemed weak. 

Grimlock’s massive legs pounded against the soft, metallic ground as he sprinted across the silver expanse. The pink sky pulsed with light. Smaller creatures scuttled away in horror from his giant, saurian form. 

He slid to a stop and transformed into his robot mode. His frame stopped just before a massive valley that stretched across the Underworld. Grimlock flattened his hand over his visor so he could survey the view. Below him were mountains, valleys, rivers, and metallic fields of sharp fauna. Mechanical trees of the same species that had made up the transforming jungle dotted the cliffside and canyon below. Herds of quadrupedal Cybertronians ran through fields. Flocks of jets and avian robots perused the skies. In the distance, he could see the sea. The putrid sea. The tar-black sea. That was his way off this rock.

There was so much open space in Cybertron’s Underworld, almost too much. The ceiling was so high that it had its own sky, even if it wasn’t the same “kind” of sky as on the surface. There were mountains here—valleys, and chambers larger than Iacon. Larger than all the Overlord’s territory combined, he imagined. These chambers were such a size to accommodate the movement of their titanic ancestors. Massive behemoths that were forced to either scale-down or perish when the energy crisis first hit untold millennia ago. Left all this open space behind. Nobody above knew how many layers Cybertron had. Nobody knew how big it really was. When those pitiful intellectuals sent a probe into space it took centuries before it had risen far enough away that the scope of the planet could be calculated. Well, it could be calculated that it was incalculable by their metrics. Grimlock was proud to be rid of them. Spent so much time trying to understand the universe, when they should have been focusing on understanding what was directly in front of them. This was where the true Cybertron slept. Ruined buildings and massive mechanical mushroom caps dotted the landscape in sickly patches. Beasts fed upon other beasts down here. Grimlock considered the universal cannibalism of the Underworld. All the creatures that preyed upon each other had been carrying on an eternal war since the world began. That’s life, he figured.

A great burst of wind slammed into the cliff face and Grimlock shielded himself from the accompanying dust. A great thunder tore through the sky, and it had begun to rain. Acid from the overhead pipes having leaked down into the Underworld. Grimlock felt the burns in his face as the droplets pelted him. The wind roared louder.

“Grimlock…”

He craned his head frantically in each direction— eager to find the source of the voice. The one who spoke his name.

But it was just the wind. As if it ever was.

Grimlock snorted and peered down the cliff face. He would need to seek cover. There were plenty of scalable crevices and caves across the landscape below. It was as if a massive worm or mole had created tunnels. He reached out, and grabbed the tip of a branch, from one of the mechanical trees identical to those in the jungle, and worked his way down. The overhead canopy would shield him from most of the acid rain until he reached the bottom. The first indent failed to shield him from the wind blowing acid rain into his hide, so he figured this was probably not going to work. He scanned the valley once more and located a cave. Slowly, he began to scale his way further down the steep metallic cliff-face. The acid was becoming painful.

He smelled something.

Grimlock made his way to the cave and quickly ducked inside from the rain. He would activate his sword to produce heat for his circuits. 

Yeah. There was definitely something here.

Grimlock spared no time. He advanced deeper into the cave. There was a light. Someone was here. Could be a threat.

He advanced closer to the blaze.

A voice echoed from within, speaking in languages he could only partially understand. “ID.//request 3421? 743-ends-865?” the voice said. “Who is there? I mean no trouble. TT:002—quadrant://ttps-45?”

He strafed the corner and found a flame, lit in the center of a large, carved out space, with walls aligned with wet, metallic ovals. When he looked closer, he thought he saw movement in these ovals. Before him stood a hunched figure of a, sharp, downward triangle shaped frame. Decepticon, obviously. And yet he seemed to have been grovelling before him. Pathetic.

“You aren’t what I was expecting,” the large, ancient, Decepticon said. “Friend, yes? Please, have a seat. I have fuel. I’ll share, but I will still need some for later. Seeking shelter from the rain? Please. Simply keep your voice modulator at low frequency. We are safe as long as we don’t wake the creature dwelling under the mountain. No venom here, I promise you. You aren’t from these parts. Who are you?”

“Me,” Grimlock sat down, and he said his name.

\---

You I – Styx 

You. 

Yes, you. 

Because this story isn’t about anyone else. It’s not really about any of these other robots. It's about you. And you have known this since you first opened your fresh, wet optics to the sight of your monstrous progenitor. 

You are in Styx. Terrorist strikes from Underworld and civilian rebels have stained the outer-cities under the Overlord’s protection. Elite Guard personnel have been deployed from Tarn to deal with the threat on behalf of Overlord Prestigious. The Autobot Magister Militum of Tarn has thus far overseen the operation with great success. Styx has repaid them kindly with annual payments towards the capitol for what has been accomplished thus far. Tarn has been granted opportunities to mine on-site, access to residences for its soldiers, and discounts on trade between the two provinces.

You are stationed on the lower manifold, where you can hear Styx’s workers labouring in the surrounding caves. You are in the barracks with the others. Megascope is standing on top of a recharge slab, Meganet is smacking her hands together in frustration, and Megadial has his back to a corner. There is a razor-python hissing in the center of the room.

Meganet stomps her foot in frustration. “This vermin-infested slag-hole is really starting to piss me off! Grab that snake, Megadial!”

He raises a digit and grins, “As the actress said to the bishop!”

“Hah!” Meganet high-fives Megadial.

“Seriously though, Meganet, go die or something. That thing probably has malware in its teeth.”

“God! Fine! I’ll do it then!” Meganet edges forward, hunching into a careful stance. “Show you what it means to wear this badge,” Meganet points at a sharp design on her chest and then jumps forward, intending to body-slam the serpent. The python quickly slithers underneath the recharge slab and Meganet lands on the floor with a clang. “Slag!”

You help Meganet to her feet, then kneel a distance from the slab.

“I don’t know what to do,” Megascope says, shaking his head. “We can call an exterminator, but to do that we’d need to tell the Magister about this.”

“You want to be the one to tell him we failed to catch a snake in our own barracks?” Megadial replies dryly.

Meganet jabs an accusatory digit at Megascope and then to you. “If we don’t catch this thing before our appointment then the Magister is going to send us back to Tarn for decommissioning!”

You are becoming annoyed. You inch closer to the slab, slowly reaching for your belt. You can see its silver metal tongue slipping in and out at you. You retrieve two energy sticks and hold them out for the creature. The razor-python stares at you curiously and slithers forward. 

“Oh, no way, I think its working.”

“Shut the hell up now, Megascope,” Meganet hisses.

The snake slithers out from under the table, and you gesture to the others to remain put. It takes small licks at the energy sticks and lowers its guard. With one swift movement, you snag the snake by its neck and hold it with your thumb pressed firmly against the back of its head. All those years honing your reflexes and studying wildlife protection paid off. You always thought that any information gleaned could be useful, and you had yet to be wrong.

Meganet grins and places a warm hand on your shoulder. “Nice work.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Meganet asks.

“It’s yours truly.”

“Get in here, Megastorm.”

The large, bulky tank opens the door and ducks into the shared hab-suite. Catching sight of you, Megastorm immediately dashes forward and begins trying to grapple you by the shoulders. You frantically try to keep your grip on the serpent intact as this big oaf body-slams you much like Meganet attempted to do the razor-python moments earlier.

Meganet quickly intervenes and grabs him by the shoulders. “Hey, hey, hey! No wrestling! He has a snake! You can’t wrestle him while he’s holding a snake!”

Realizing this, Megastorm releases you and takes a wide step back, palms raised. “I see it! I see it! You are right! He has a snake! I hear you! I’m backing off!” Megastorm brushes himself off, huffs, then locks eyes with Meganet. “In all seriousness, I came to tell you to pack if you haven’t already.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Because we need to go. If the Magister decides to punish us because we aren’t on schedule, then I will personally crack all of your skulls at the same time. Don’t think I can’t.”

Meganet grins and rests her servos behind her head. “Cool it, we’re good to go. We just had a minor infestation problem.” She gestures to the snake as it wraps its tail around your arm. “I mean look at it. Look at that thing.”

Megastorm stares at the snake being subjugated in your grasp and grins. “They’re always getting in through the walls down here.” He traces his finger along a crease on the nearest wall. “Look, you can see the areas where they’ve burrowed.”

Megascope sighed and sat back down on the recharge slab. “So, what’s going down exactly? You three go on an assignment while the rest of us get to sit here with the snakes… and the… and the rats…”

“It’s an appointment, Megascope. Not an assignment,” Megastorm corrected. “And yours truly squashed around fifty rats last week. When was the last time you dealt with extermination around here anyway?”

Megascope stands and grabs a small metal pole from his cabinet. He walks over to a small indent of tar in the wall and begins poking it with the pole. “I was the one who scoped out the snake’s burrow. We blocked it off with some tar so that it couldn’t get back in. So, um, you’re welcome.”

As he scratches away the tar to reveal the hole, dozens of razor-pythons suddenly emerge at once and begin slithering around the barracks floor. Megascope screams and leaps on top of the recharge slab in a panic.

“Oh GOD! They’re everywhere! There’s snakes everywhere! Oh slag! Oh God! What are we going to do?!”

Meganet slowly begins to step over the snakes and towards the door. “Forget this noise. We have a job to do. Enjoy the pythons, Megascope.”

“Screw you!”

Megastorm turns from his panicking teammates to follow Meganet, then stops, and eyes your still-kneeling form. The pythons slither over and around your legs, their plated bodies somewhat rough against your own metallic exo-structure. You don’t seem to mind, and neither do they. You had been examining the razor-python still caught in your grasp. Its body coiled around your arm. You realize something funny about it. 

“Are we leaving now or what? What do we do, Megatron?”

You, rise, “Evidently, Megastorm, we roll out.”

With a swift flick of your wrist, you snap the razor-python’s neck, removing it from existence.

\----- 

Remote Control – Iacon 

“I could sing to you, if you’d like.”

Skyblast rubbed his shoulder. He was lying in one of the recharge slabs in the processing plant’s rustic, cramped repair-bay, face to the ceiling. Arcee stood over him with her arms wrapped around herself protectively. Signal Flare had been bolting the pieces of his face back together with a power-tool. “You know something, I think I could use some of that right about now. It might help me forget about the whole chronic pain thing.”

Signal Flare shot them an irritant look, “If you’re going to sing then whatever you do, don’t rap. Only Kaonians can rap.”

Arcee unfolded her arms and stared down at Skyblast as she sang:

“Forty-six cubes/Forty-six cubes/Forty-six cubes/”

Skyblast joined in the chorus with some struggle: “Cybertron/filled with stars/planting seeds outside/planting seeds inside/”

“Ooohhh-Skyblast-boy/I could-kill-you/I could-kill-you/I could-kill-you/”

“I’m sorry-ma’am/I’m sorry-ma’am/I’m sorry-ma’am/I’m sorry ma’am/”

“I for-give-you/I for-give-you/ I for-give-you/I for-give-you/”

“Cybertron/filled with stars/endless branches/embrace the sky—”

Signal Flare shot another bolt into Skyblast’s jaw, cutting him off. “You guys suck.”

Skyblast tried to make a “pfft” noise from his lips and failed, “Save it for the novel, Nurse Flare.”

“I’m not a nurse!”

Arcee rubbed the side of her head, “I’m sorry, Sig. I forgot you had a headache.”

“It’s all good, girl. Thank the Matrix for Tollenus sometimes.”

The plant manager had agreed to shut down for the day after what had happened, and received the OK from the labour board. It was not a good look for any of them, but it was the only thing that could be reasonably done when everyone now had the shakes and there were no further precautions that could be applied. And it was true they all had headaches. 

She interlocked her fingers and placed them behind her head. “Actually, though. Thank you Skyblast. Your clumsiness has somehow granted us some time off. Since it was an accident, we’ll probably get extra vacation payout, too.”

“You’re welcome!” Skyblast gestured a thumbs up to this. His eyes were still in the process of being replaced. “You guys both owe me a pint of hot oil after this, you know that?”

Arcee could detect a grin under Signal Flare’s faceplate. The former nurse chuckled dryly, “Just pity drinks until you buy a house for me with your spanking new insurance pay.”

“That money is gonna be budgeted to more important things in life—like cam equipment for streaming. Sorry bud.”

“Wow, prick.”

Arcee smiled, and began to back out of the room-- as if distracted by some minor work obligation that she was already in the process of doing. She felt a massive weight finally overcome her as soon as she was alone. Her headache was worse than she let on, but she needed to cheer up Skyblast, and keep things positive for everyone. She leaned over, suddenly exhausted, and clutched her face. Oh God, his face. Poor Skyblast. He didn’t deserve that to happen to him. She shouldn’t have taken the armour. She knew her way around the plant better than he did. She should have known. It was too much. 

“Arcee,” Blastarm rolled towards her in his off-road jeep mode and transformed. He frowned and extended his servos towards her. “Oh, hey, hey, hey, you good?”

Arcee rubbed her optics and put on a smile. “Yep. What’s up?”

“The delivery guy. He’s here.”

Her expression dropped. “No. For what?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the protective gear.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Front or back entrance?”

“The front. Probably got confused.”

Arcee transformed into her speedster mode and raced towards the plant’s main entrance. When she transformed and opened the door, she found the trucker to be standing, staring at his communicube. The red and blue delivery-mech was tall, and well-built, with a noticeably chiseled face and lips that could give the late Overlord Godmaster a run for his money. He also seemed lost. Distracted.

“You took your sweet time.”  
-  
The trucker quickly tucked his cube away. “I’m afraid we had some delays—.”

“You need to park in the back entrance. We can’t unload anything here.”

He turned to his trailer, and then scanned the lot. “I see. I’ll need to back in then.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all.”

The bot transformed into his truck-cab mode, reconnected to his old, rusted trailer unit and began maneuvering around the lot. 

Arcee shook her head, and quickly began directing the poor idiot, “No, you need to move forward before you back in—that’s it—no, left. Turn left and back in! What are you even doing? Turn left! LEEEEEEFFFFT!”

After some struggle, Arcee re-entered the building, proceeded down some stairs, and met the trucker at the back entrance. 

“Thank you,” he said, “I’m sorry about the delay. The march—”

Arcee passed him and made a beeline for his trailer. She paused when she noticed he wasn’t following him. “Are you going to help me unload this gear or not?”

“Of course,” he raced behind her and opened the back of his trailer unit. Inside were boxes of protective gear the plant could have used an hour ago.

They immediately began moving back-and-forth, loading boxes into the plant one-by-one. The delivery mech watched Arcee carefully. “Should you be doing this? You seem a little—”

“Singed?”

He paused, unsure of whether to agree or not, “I can handle this if you’re—”

“No. Just unload the truck.”

“I don’t think you should be exerting yourself right now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she dropped the protective gear mid-transit, its contents clanging against the inside of the box. “It’s your fault I look like this.”

He frowned at her, failing to understand.

“Right now, my guy is getting his face rebuilt from scratch because we didn’t have enough gear left over from our last delivery. We were supposed to get this shipment from Vos weeks ago.”

The robot’s optics widened, and he quickly stared at the floor; his servos clenching and unclenching. He had finally understood. “Oh.”

“We were ahead of schedule.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“We were ahead of schedule, but because you were behind on your schedule my guy got hurt.” She shook her head, still fuming. 

The robot almost seemed to cave in on himself. Arcee wanted him to feel guilty, but when she went over this interaction in her head earlier, she somehow didn’t expect how guilty he would actually become. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m not sure if I will be able to be of any service, but I work with my Union’s treasury. I will see what I can do to ensure that this doesn’t happen again.”

“It still happened.”

“And to do what I can to see that you are reimbursed.”

Though he sounded genuine, Arcee knew this was what he would have to say to avoid the problem. She picked up one of the two remaining boxes of gear, and the delivery mech grabbed the other. She repeated herself. “It doesn’t change what happened.”

“I know, and I know that if I am being honest with you, I can’t actually promise you anything.”

Arcee stared at the blue and red mech as they entered the storage area. While she had been avoiding eye-contact since he first arrived, she only realized that he had been looking her in the optic the entire time.

“I’ve worked for the docks all my life. If I know a thing about how my superiors think, they will likely bring up the contract you signed— or your work-place ethos, or whatever they can get their servos on to keep themselves out of court.” They had finished unloading, and with a mental command, the delivery mech closed the back of his rusted trailer unit. It screeched shut. “Under different circumstances, I would advise you to sue us with haste. But because you signed a binding contract with us, I truly can’t promise you any guaranteed results.”

“I didn’t sign any contract.”

The delivery mech frowned, opened his data-pad, and pulled up an image of the contract in question. Signed Autobot Tollenus. “Tollenus, right?”

“Oh,” Arcee laughed unexpectedly, most of all to herself. “That isn’t me, but it’s funny you thought that. Tollenus is my boss. My name is Arcee, I just work here.”

The delivery-mech seemed flustered for a moment. “I’m sorry, you had such a commanding presence outside that I thought you would have been the one in charge.”

She shook her head. Maybe that is why he had been treating her with so much respect. He thought she was in charge. No one was that respectful to just anybody. Most of the time she was confused for an intern, or some clerk. People always made these assumptions about bots like her. “Far from it. I’ll take you to him.”

She transformed into her speedster form and the delivery-mech folded into his truck-mode behind her. As they rolled through the plant’s corridors, he asked the question everyone asked her at some point:

“What does RC stand for, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“It doesn’t. My name is Arcee. A-R-C-E-E.”

“I see. That was a stupid question.”

“Here’s a question— why did you need to back your trailer in when we were outside?”

“Because you asked me to.”

“Couldn’t you have just sub-spaced?”

“An entire trailer?”

“Tarn’s shipping district has them. I don’t know, I thought every truck in central Iacon would have been outfitted by now. Or is that just the long-nosed ones?”

“No. That would be the dream, but no. We can’t afford anything. It’s why I have another destination right after this. It’s also the reason why my trailer unit broke down on the way here.”

As they passed the office where Skyblast was being mended, Arcee nearly had the delivery mech stop to transform and see what had happened. As soon as the thought entered her processor, she realized how ludicrously vindictive it was to try something like that. She was also to blame— and pointing the finger for the sake of feeling better about herself should have been beneath her. The guy was only doing what he was told, and there was no point in going out of her way to make him feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. It was clear from the sound of his engine and the scentless bellow from his stacks that he had caught a glimpse.

“Was that him?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t realize. I promise I will do whatever I can to make this right. I know saying these things doesn’t amount to much without immediate results.”

“It doesn’t. My friend is still hurt.”

“I know.”

They transformed in front of a large pair of doors. “We’re here.” Arcee knocked once, “Tollenus.”

An old, static voice emitted from the door. “Come inside me.”

The delivery mech wore a familiar, shocked expression. “What?”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to wear any protection when you enter him,” Arcee said.

“What?!”

Arcee parted the doors. Inside was an ancient-looking room. It was covered wall-to-wall in blinking lights, circuit-boards, cranes, levers, pulleys, and gears, without any symmetry or apparent design. Wires hung from the ceiling. A single screen was located at the other end of the room, but it only projected the colour red. 

The delivery mech kept turning around to witness the space. “Wait, where...” He completed a 360, as he surveyed the room. “Oh, this is…”

Tollenus’ voice boomed all around him. “Though your lack of punctuality tries the endless temper of AUTOBOT TOLLENUS, I might yet still bring us back up to schedule with the help of my ENDOSCOPIC CRANE ARM™!” 

The mech hammered his fist gently into his palm. “You’re an Elder Circuit.”

Arcee fanned a servo in his direction, “He’s old, alright. I’m sorry about him: he’s from a time when it was compulsory to introduce yourself by giving a brief description of your personality followed by your primary tool or ability.” She would have explained this earlier, but she always liked to see people’s reactions when they met Tollenus for the first time.

He nodded, intrigued, but not shocked in the slightest. In fact, he was utterly fascinated by the room. He tapped a digit against his chin as his optics scanned over the ancient machinery which made up the Circuit’s body. “It’s my understanding that in the Primal vernacular, introductions are more fluid. Fewer syllables, so it sounds more natural in that frequency, or so I’m told.” 

Arcee was surprised to hear the mech was already at least somewhat knowledgeable about the Circuits. Most people did not think too hard about them unless you were a history buff. Most of them just thought they were strange for their room forms and for remaining static in one area for their entire lives. She couldn’t imagine being able to be content not to move anywhere, but she knew that it all came down to programming. Besides, she had no idea what Tollenus turned into, only that his current form of a room filled with crane arms, gears and pulleys was considered his “robot mode”, and their ancient functions of building robotic bodies for flaming. The delivery mech faced the red screen at the end of Tollenus’s frame, “It’s an honour to be here, sir. I’ve read all that I can about your era.”

“Why are you talking?” Tollenus creaked. His voice was without emotion, in fact, it was like that of a text-to-speech operator. “I will sign so you can leave.”

She was beginning to feel sorry for the delivery mech for being subjected to Tollenus. Especially after he was already subjected to her. Arcee didn’t necessarily want to be on her boss’s side when it came to his treatment of others. Not that she could blame him. He was from such an old generation—quite possibly before humanoid robots walked the planet. Perhaps before walking was invented, even, much as some evangelicals would argue that the Origin was bipedal in nature. He was from a, quite literally, forgotten era of Cybertron. Robots older than the Overlords seemed to have universally refused to give historians a morsel of their heritage, save for what could be immediately observed—although it was likely those secrets of the past would be forever lost due to the unavoidable data-corruption that came with age. Such corruption was such a faraway threat to Arcee that in the four million or so years that it would eventually find her, it could be assumed that society would develop far that it would be preventative. Workplace hazards would always be a greater threat to her than age or brain death. 

“Right,” Arcee said, gesturing the mech forward. “Don’t worry, we won’t keep you. You probably want to be out of here so you can complete your other trip.”

“Arcee also wants to leave as soon as possible.”

There was a pause, and the mech frowned. He seemed to at the very least understand that there were different social boundaries for the Elder Circuits, or, if not that, minor malfunctions due to an aged processor to excuse his behaviour. She’d deal with Tollenus the way she usually did when this happened.

“You’re right, Tollenus.”

“She wants to quit her life and teach herself a lesson.”

“Yep, yes, Tollenus, you are absolutely right.”

“Get over here.”

The mech pulled out his datapad, took one step forward, and stopped, seeming lost. 

“Bring it to my ENDOSCOPIC CRANE ARM™.”

An unwieldy, simplistically designed lever moved, and an equally simplistic crane arm lifted from across the room. A stylus slipped out the end of the arm. Arcee watched the mech as Tollenus signed the data-pad. She wondered if he also saw the familiarity with which this ancient piece of machinery moved. It was completely alien to their frames, and yet the fluidity of movement in the arm itself still had the same energy of life as any regular limb did. Arcee always thought it interesting, focusing on the similarities between her and Tollenus rather than the many differences they had. 

As Tollenus completed his signature, his stylus retracted and his arm immediately reached out and grabbed the delivery-mech by the shoulder, clamping down tight. The delivery-mech grunted in surprise, more so from the sound of his own armour creaking then the actual apparent pain that was being administered.

“Hey, hey,” Arcee belted, “Tollenus, you can’t do that!”

“You should have been here cycles ago.” Tollenus’ voice screech from every direction. Another arm reached forward and clamped the delivery mech’s leg, further restraining him. The mech didn’t know what to do—he seemed like he was focusing all his energy in refraining from doing something that could damage the ancient in some way. “Now Skyblast is dead because of you.”

“Skyblast isn’t dead, he’s just hurt!”

“Skyblast is hurt because of you. You infected line of coding. I should not spend a single plate of nickel on malcontents who consider consecutive delays acceptable form. Form. Form is function. Function is purpose. Purpose is life. There is nothing left except Death.”

“I’m sor—” Another crane arm extended brusquely and clamped the delivery-mech driver’s mouth shut.

Arcee placed a hand on one of Tollenus’ arms, “It’s okay, Tollenus! I already yelled at him for—” he shook her off violently, and the weakened Arcee immediately fell to the ground.

“F:121021//rvgrfwrlds01 you, virus. Tell your master that we will report this indiscretion to the Plebeian Council. Your trepidation is revolting.” He released the delivery-mech, leaving small dents in his frame where he was clamped. “Now get out of me.”

The delivery mech bowed and apologized, and Arcee proceeded to lead him back to the rear entrance. This time in robot-mode. They were both slightly shaken up. The mech, more so, because Arcee had seen these kinds of outbursts before. 

“He’s old,” she said, as some sort of explanation for what just happened. 

“I’m no stranger to the elderly. I’ve seen how they behave. We should still respect them in spite of that.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

They had a moment of silence.

“Well, that one’s mine,” Arcee said, trying to sound cheerful. “Who’s your elder mech? Is it this “master” of yours?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m impressed that you were able to recognize Tollenus for what he is. Most bots don’t see a living thing when they meet Tollenus. Just some machinery in a room.” How could they not? That was essentially what he was—with the addition of a functioning processor.

“He said you were quitting?”

It hit her. Much of the mech’s earlier comments about trying to help Processing Plant G must have seemed embarrassing in hindsight when the person he was saying it to didn’t appear to plan on working there for much longer.

“Oh, I’m not. I mean, I don’t know if I even could. I send applications to the Academy at Nova Cronum every day to see if I can enter the intellectual class, but—"

“It’s a roll of the dice,” The driver nodded in firm understanding, “I know. I tried applying for Iacon’s Academy of Advanced Technology. It’s impossible to get in without a letter of recommendation.”

“Exactly.”

They approached the rear entrance. “What are you applying for?” He asked, before quickly adding: “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“You won’t laugh?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think I want to teach math to protoforms.”

He didn’t laugh. “I think that’s commendable.”

“Really now, come on...”

“I think it’s commendable that you’ve got the drive.” He stepped outside, “Speaking of drive, I should go. Again, I’ll see if I can put a word in somewhere about what happened. I truly am sorry about what happened to Skyblast.”

Arcee knew she should have been the one apologizing. For Tollenus, but mostly for herself. She felt guilty over the guilt she inflicted upon him. He was a mech who was simply following orders with crap equipment, just like her. What had happened was out of his control. But most of all she was guilty about herself, for taking the last set of gear, instead of having Skyblast take it for himself. Who was she to place the blame on this stranger? It was her fault Skyblast was hurt. If not hers than Tollenus’. She reacted with venom out of concern, she knew, but as a fellow member of the industrial force, she should have treated the driver with more tact. Bots like them needed to stick together in these times. 

Instead, she said: “Appreciate it,” and shut the door on him. She couldn’t drag out another apology. Maybe it was because she already heard the driver apologize so many times in such a short span of time. Maybe she wanted to give them both as quickly an escape from that situation as quickly as possible. She watched him through the plexiglass as he moved away from the rear door and began tapping away at his communicube. He seemed visibly upset. Ah, she never got his name, but she supposed she didn’t need to. People aren’t ever really expected to ask their delivery drivers for their names.

She turned around, transformed, and raced back to Tollenus. 

“Don’t come inside.”

She transformed back into her robot-mode and slammed his doors wide open. “You know that wasn’t appropriate.”

“Your unrequested entrance tries the temper of the great AUTOBOT TOLLENUS, you—”

“Okay, stop, stop! You have no right hurting people like that!” She jabbed a finger at the door. “That poor mech would file for an assault if he didn’t pity us. Better yet, you have no right to be telling strangers about my life!”

“It was true.”

“It’s not even true.” She raised her servos over her head. “I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

“You told me you considered leaving a possibility. Why would I expect this consideration to be false?”

“Because I don’t know if I can leave this place when you treat these kids that work for you like punching bags!”

“You won’t leave because of them. You only want to leave because of you.”

“Yes! Yes, I do want to leave! And I don’t care if I want to leave for myself! I wasn’t programmed for this—I’ve never felt like I had a place here. I don’t know what my purpose is, but I’m dying here trying to keep this place running for you. I’m dying dealing with all the hazardous wastes, and with slag like today to Skyblast. Maybe I’ll figure things out in the intellectual class if I ever get accepted there, maybe. I don’t know. But I can’t work somewhere that doesn’t give me gratification for existing like it does for everyone else.”

“form it function/function is purpose/purpose it life/”

“Oh, spare me. You know, nobody is going to want to be around someone who has been alive for 4 million years and is still more miserable than half the planet. If you can be alive for so long and still fail to find the key to happiness, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Answer me that, Tollenus.”

“1. You think you are special because you are experiencing unfulfillment. You are not. The Circuits have all felt and experienced everything you have before the Flame which inseminated your brain module was ever peeled from the Creation Matrix. 2. You think you are special because you think I won’t terminate you. You are correct.”

It was pointless speaking to him. He seemed to have contrary objectives between each of his sentences. “In that case I’m taking tomorrow off.” She turned, “If you end up needing me, I’ll be at the turbofox hunting range.”

“I will be here,” Tollenus said. 

When she exited her boss to find Blastarm and Signal Flare standing outside, staring at her. They said nothing. She said nothing. She stormed past them, back to where Skyblast was resting. As Arcee moved, she could hear Tollenus saying something to himself in his emotionless voice behind her. It sounded like he was saying as if trying to sing: “Cybertron/filled with stars…”

\-----

Another Constellation – Iacon

Orion Pax was happy to leave Processing Plant G. It was horrible, seeing what the failure of the docks meant for the people that relied upon its services. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for what happened to Skyblast. If only he had taken a different route or picked a different trailer unit to hitch. He knew there was no point in blaming himself, but he still felt awful for that place. He felt awful from that place. The last thing he wanted was to make another stop at an address run by another pre-war mech. But he would have to, and there was no point stewing about it. He wouldn’t need to travel far, at least. The journey back to the docks from central Iacon would be longer, and his next stop was an address in the same neighbourhood. It was the Cathedral of one of the older Houses. One with its own Matrix Flame. He was going to shoot himself if this place had a back entrance. Upon reaching his destination, he found that the House seemed almost vacant from the outside. He transformed, and immediately checked his communicube. 

He messaged Dion. No response. 

He messaged Ariel. No response.

“Oh, come on.” 

It bothered him when they didn’t respond like this. They were enjoying their time off together while he was getting manhandled by an Ancient. Pathetic. What could they be doing together? He nearly crushed his cube in his palm. His awareness of his jealousy only fanning the flames of his self-hatred. He took a deep breath, tucked the cube away and stepped towards the doors of the House. He knocked once, and an intercom sounded.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Greetings, I’m here for the pickup.”

“Are you a cop?”

Orion was immediately thrown off by the question. “No?”

“You sure? Because you kind of answered that like you weren’t sure. If you’re a cop then you have to tell me you’re a cop by law. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.”

“I assure you that I have never been a police officer.”

“Okay cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Gimme a sec…”

A laser beam emitted from the top of the door’s arch and ran across him painlessly. Orion stared down at his body, trying to figure out what was happening him. A loud ding sounded from the door, and a green light flashed overhead.

The door unlocked itself and slid open. Just as Orion began to shake off his bewilderment and enter, he heard a loud revving from within. A magenta sportscar raced out of the entrance, and began to drift, circling Orion before transforming, slamming the ground with his servos, and flipping into his robot mode. The young mech completed his transformation and placed his hands on his hips.

Orion immediately sensed he had met this robot before. Though he understood the robot seemed to have been expecting some form of compliment for his entrance, all he could think of to say was: “Your door scanned me.”

The adolescent stared at the scanning tool, then back to Orion. “Yeah, that’s just something the flamilias had installed.” He knocked on the doorframe, then peered at Orion’s rusted, broken-down trailer unit and whistled. “I guess beggars can’t be choosers, huh? Come on in, I’ll show you where everything’s at.” 

Orion followed him into the cathedral. The home was almost barren, with several packages in moving boxes. From the corner of his optic, he could spy religious symbolism unique to the House’s own spiritual practices lining the walls of the lower floor. The magenta robot led Orion up a flight of stairs. 

“Hey kudos, by the way, that was way faster than I expected for a truck. You deserve a raise, or like, a really good high-five, or something.”

“What does it do?”

“A good high-five just feels good, man. I don’t need to explain it…”

“The scanner?”

“Oh. It, uh, checks to see if you’re armed, I think.”

The image of Tollenus’ many limbs entered his mind. 

Armed. Really. 

“Armed? Really?”

“Yeah, pretty intense, huh? We have a House member over in Styx who got robbed or something last month, so he convinced our Pater Flamilias to install home security. I get it, but still. Talk about paranoid.”

As they reached the top of the steps, the magenta robot opened a door, leading into a hab-suite stacked top to bottom in moving boxes. 

Orion placed his hands behind his back, suddenly hyper-conscious of his own presence. Not sure what he was supposed to say or do. The photon crystal he was supposed to pick up wouldn’t have been buried under all this. He turned to the robot, “It would appear that you are preparing to move soon.” 

“Well, yeah, I hope to do so today.” He paused, smiling wryly at the dockworker. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Orion stared at the robot.

Another pause. The magenta robot placed a hand behind his head. “You’re not the moving truck?”

Orion knew he should have double-checked the address. “Forgive me, but I think there may have been a misunderstanding. Is this not the House of Prime?”

The bot folded his arms across his chest and slowly began backing away, as if expecting Orion to whip out a police badge. “It is, but I’m beginning to think you’re here for something else…”

“The photon crystal, yes.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “Oh, yeah, that.”

The magenta robot immediately extended a handshake. “I’m Hot Rod, by the way, what’s your name?”

Orion raised a brow. Most bots didn’t ask for his name. “I’m Orion, Orion Pax.” He took his hand.

Hot Rod immediately began snapping his fingers in excitement, “Hey, no kidding, I know some of your housemates! I was just speaking to Constel Pax at the march—I haven’t heard from Pleiades though. How’s he been doing since the surgery, anyhow?”

Though he had seen them earlier among the group of protesting insurgents, Orion had no interest speaking about his flamilias. “Pleiades is just great.”

Hot Rod jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, sensing the tension in this subject, “Let’s head back downstairs. I’ll race you if you’re game.”

“Down steps?”

“I’m still game, man.”

After watching Hot Rod fall down a flight of stairs, Orion proceeded to help him to his feet and, upon closer inspection of the young, magenta robot’s frame, realized where he had seen him before. Hot Rod quickly patted himself off and beckoned him deeper into the cathedral. 

Orion was entranced by the carvings along the cathedral’s walls. There was a repeated pattern of a spherical shape with wings, or what could even be considered handles throughout the carvings. The shapes didn’t really mean anything to Orion, but they were gorgeous, nonetheless. 

“I take it you saw what happened at the march?” Orion inquired, deciding to breach the topic on his mind. “Regarding the turbofox head?”

Hot Rod kept staring straight ahead. For the first time, he appeared to think about his response, which told Orion all he needed to know about the identity of the event’s perpetrator. “I don’t know, I must have left before then... Here, follow me and I’ll show you the Flame.”

They journeyed deeper into the cathedral, coming across a pair of large doors that stretched to the ceiling. It seemed impossible for a single Autobot to open the doors by themself. Etched into the door’s design was a depiction of some saviour or messiah of antiquity. There was a strange, unfamiliar geode clasped in its servos. 

“Ready?” Hot Rod asked.

Orion Pax and Hot Rod both pushed, and parted the doors simultaneously, splitting the image of the ancient robot, and the geode, in half. 

The Matrix Chamber was wide, and well maintained, but hadn’t been used in what seemed like centuries. Pews lined the walls leading to an altar topped by a massive holographic blaze. Upon closer inspection, Orion could see that each individual ember was a small red holographic 1 or 0. The Flames emitted from the photon crystal were once used to read the status of the crystal and whether it would be able to give life during that cycle. Some mechanosmiths could still translate the code to calculate when and whether a Flame could program life into the moulds they designed. Standing before the Flame pedestal was a massive, aged, clockwork mechanoid. He had wide, block-like wings and iron thrusters. Orion could surmise that this made him one of the ancient fliers of the past. From the generation before flight technology was lost, and only recently restored again. As such, Orion took an immediate interest in him. The elderly mech seemed as if he was trying to pray but wasn’t sure how. Or had forgotten. 

“Oh hey, you’re still alive,” Hot Rod chided.

The robot, without moving his body, turned his head and glanced back at Hot Rod. Orion could see gears, levies, and pulleys operating his systems between the cracks of his frame. He wondered if he was a close relative to Tollenus. His size alone was enough indication that he was at least older than the great downsize- perhaps older than the Overlords themselves. 

“Mind your tongue, impertinent youth,” the elderly mech droned. “Now, are you going to introduce me to your friend, or not?”

Pax extended his hand to the ancient mech. “Orion, Orion Pax, sir.”

The old mech, though unsmiling, took Orion’s hand and shook it with warmth. “I am Vector Prime. A pleasure to meet you Orion, Orion Pax.”

“He’s here for the photon Crystal, Vec,” Hot Rod said. “He’s not my friend. Er, not yet I suppose,” he slapped Orion on the back. “But give it time!”

“I see.” There was something solemn about Vector’s face when he spoke, but his eyes and voice transmitted an air of cordiality, nonetheless.

Orion was unsure of how to read the Prime. His task of transporting a Matrix Flame’s photon crystal to the docks for shipment was no undemanding task. The Matrix Flame’s were considered sacred by many, and he knew elder mechs like Tollenus or Vector would not take the dismantling and transport of one lightly. He was already tense from imagining something disastrous happening to it on the way back to the docks, considering how successful he was in getting there.

“I should thank you for this,” Vector Prime said, to Orion’s surprise. 

“Please, you really shouldn’t. I was actually supposed to have been here hours ago.”

“Time is a construct,” Vector Prime turned to face him. “It is fortunate that you arrived when you did. I find it difficult to say goodbye to our Flame after so long. No one ever warns you of the crippling nostalgia which accompanies age.”

“I understand. I think I do, at least.” Orion struggled to form his words. Each House held its own traditions and miniature cultures, and the House of Prime wasn’t exactly the most notable House in Iacon. He didn’t want to say anything to insult the ancient being. He only hoped that the intention behind maintaining the surname of Pax spoke for itself. Most flamilias had only their House leaders maintain their surnames, like the Blades and the Neuros. Others had most, if not every member adopt the surname of their House. Whether Vector was the House Leader or not remained vague to Orion.

“I believe that you do,” Vector said, “however, I fear I must ask you for yet another favour, Orion Pax. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you allow me some time to say goodbye to our Flame one last time before we begin the dismantling process?”

Orion knew how important this was to the Prime. He also knew that the longer he spent at the cathedral, the longer he spent away from Ariel and Dion. The last thing he wanted was to subject the former to the latter any longer than required. Vector Prime seemed to recognize his displeasure at the prospect of curtailing his work.

Hot Rod lobbed his head from one side to the other as he stretched his neck, “Come on, Vec, don’t go holding the poor guy hostage.”

“I realize you are a busy mechanoid.” Vector Prime said, raising a palm and covering Hot Rod’s mouth to shut him up. “So please do not feel as though you must do as I request. You have every right to expedite your duties here.” 

He wanted to leave. But he would only be doing so for himself, and to keep a paranoid optic on his friends. He couldn’t afford to be selfish. Selfishness was what resulted in Skyblast’s accident. He couldn’t pick and choose when to do favours for people based on his own convenience. He needed to be better than that. Better than the docks. Better than the House of Pax.

“It’s no trouble at all, sir. After this job I’m done, and the longer I stay here the more overtime I make anyhow.” 

Vector nodded, witnessing Orion’s indecision, but respectfully approving of his choice to stay. “You have my gratitude.”

Hot Rod slapped Orion’s shoulder, “Don’t let this old-timer boss you around. All he’s done since he’s returned his voyage is sit in front of this thing and watch it like it’s TV.”

Prime frowned, “Don’t be rude. Go fetch our guest some electritea from the pantry. He came a long way for this.”

“No way, man. Who even consumes that stuff?”

“I do! Hellion! I do!” 

Hot Rod raised his palms and backed out of the chamber.

Vector Prime huffed and frowned at Orion, “What’s TV?”

“Visual telecommunications broadcasts.”

“Spellbinding,” he shook his head in amazement, then remembered. “The concentrated electric energy discharges of our electritea come directly from the mechaflora of the Underworld’s Country of Matros. Don’t let Hot Rod fool you, the tea there is considered a delicacy.” 

“I’ve never been. In fact, I’ve never even heard of a Matros Country.” Or tea, Orion reckoned.

“Yes, well, it seems the Overworld’s geographic progress has developed little since I’ve been away. I doubt it is even on a map—most true places are,” he brought a servo to his ancient blue chin. “I have designed some rough sketches of the Underworld’s territory myself, although I imagine they may be quite outdated now.” 

“I would love to take a look at them, if you would allow me.”

“Of course, I will have Hot Rod send you a copy of my portfolio. He has a far superior grasp on modern communications technology than I do.” Vector Prime sat with some difficulty on one of the pews and beckoned Orion to join him in watching the flame. “I apologize for him, by the way. To put it mildly Hot Rod is…” Vector Prime seemed to struggle to describe the young mech. Orion could relate, knowing what he now knew about the incident at the march and it’s culprit.

“He’s young,” Orion answered for him. 

“I was going to say he’s a rebellious, long-faced, over-modded, anarchist, but yes. That too.”

Hot Rod’s voice echoed from the other room, “Hey, I’m not over-modded!”

Vector continued, “He’s moved out from the cathedral once before, but was forced to return due to his inability to hold onto an occupation for more than two hours.”

Though he selected his name to represent the Pax’s to the best of his ability, Orion had no interest in returning to the House he was born in, nor to be around the people who mentored him. Moving back in with the flamilias was never an easy feat for the independent. Orion understood that. 

Hot Rod returned with the tea. “That wasn’t my fault. None of my employers could get past the whole language barrier thing.”

Orion tilted his head to the side. “Language barrier?” 

“Yeah, I don’t speak chump.” 

Vector Prime huffed, not quite understanding Hot Rod’s word choice. “Yes, I am sure their “chump” is the sole reason for your various dismissals.”

Still holding the tray of tea with one hand, Hot Rod began backing up to gesture to himself grandiosely. “Hey, what’s the point of lion tamers without a few lions to keep things interesting?”

As he retreated a step too far, Hot Rod fell backwards over the pew, landing on his backside and spilling the contained sparks over him. The multi-coloured energy discharges crackled and danced across his magenta frame. 

Orion rocketed from his seat to help, “You alright?”

Hot Rod stood up, red in the faceplate and sparkling from the distilled energy popping around him. “… Yeah, yeah. Be back real quick.” 

He collected the tray and the cups, transformed, and sped out of the chamber once more.

Orion reckoned that for someone so young, Hot Rod moved and spoke like he was running out of time. And for someone so old, it was as if Vector Prime, had all the time in the world. 

“Did you see that?” Orion said. “He didn’t even react to having those electrical currents spilled over him.”

“The Prime Flame always did have a penchant for generating mavericks with high tolerances for pain.”

“And what about you? Hot Rod mentioned that you went on some kind of voyage.”

“Indeed, I spent the last one-thousand and twenty-four years travelling the Underworld.”

Orion physically reeled back against the pew, “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say you were in the Underworld for over a thousand years.” 

“I was performing a Trial by Fire. Not my first, of course—I simply enjoy travelling new lands.” His aged optics glazed over the flame. “As such, I haven’t had the opportunity to truly know Hot Rod or any of the other young Primes for very long. I only returned from my Trial last week. I have met Nightwatch, our very successful member of Styx’s Senate. Our Paterflamilas, Sentinel Prime, has already moved in with him from here. Hot Rod and I shall be the next to follow.”

“That’s the guy I was telling you about,” Hot Rod said, returning with the new cannisters of energy. “Nightwatch— paranoid McGee.”

It took a moment for Vector to understand and realize what Hot Rod was talking about. “Ah, the House security. I apologize for the intrusion of privacy. We had it prepared here as well per Nightwatch’s request. I understand his hesitation. Styx has indeed become somewhat… political these days.”

Orion plugged the tip of the cup into a port on his wrist and sapped the electricity—feeling a sense of intrinsic relief as the energy charged his system. It tasted warm and acidic. Orion knew all too well about the Elite Guard’s defence against Styx from the outside threats. Mostly Underworlders and rebels taking their upset to the extreme. He worried about where Hot Rod fit on the spectrum between protest and terrorism, and how influenceable he may have been due to his age. 

Hot Rod handed them their beverages, then slumped into the pew next to Orion; his limbs splayed out. He traced a circle in the air with his index finger. “I’ll probably circle back at some point. I like Nightwatch’s pad and everything, but I prefer the big city. Nothing much to do in the Styx.” 

“But it’s the people that are the problem, right?” Orion said, setting down his tea. “Iacon’s not as spacious anymore. There isn’t as much fuel or housing as there used to be.”

“Precisely,” Vector said. “I am sure you realize that is why you are here in the first place. We are donating our Flame to a trusted mechanosmith overseas for research and development into energy-efficient frames.” Though he said this nonchalantly, Orion noted that this meant he was donating the very tool required to make more Primes, more family. 

“Overpopulation,” Orion said, understanding. “Something needs to be done about it.”

Hot Rod grinned and leaned closer to Orion, hands wringing in excitement. “That’s a pretty metal statement coming from a delivery mech. ‘Overpopulation, something needs to be done about it.’ Radical! You deliver sick lines like that every day, or just photon crystals?”

Vector stared at Hot Rod, “Hm. Perhaps the sooner we dismantle this Flame the better.” 

The young magenta slapped his knees and practically leapt from the pew. “I’m on it, dismantling this thing will be a piece of oil-cake.” He knelt down, removed a panel from the base of the Flame’s pedestal, reached inside, and began fiddling around with the inner components. “What—how the f—” Hot Rod laid down on his back, and with the wheels on his heels and forearms rolled himself underneath the pedestal. 

“Need some help?” Orion offered.

“Yeah, that would be grea—”

“No, but thank you,” Vector placed a hand on Orion’s shoulder. “We thought it best that the Prime Flame be disassembled by one who was programmed by it.”

Hot Rod’s muffled voice could barely be heard under the Flame pedestal as he worked. “What, why aren’t you helping, then?”

Vector folded his arms, “Whoever said this Flame programmed me?”

Hot Rod poked his head out and stared at the Prime. “What are you then, adopted?”

“Just be fast, Hot Rod.” Vector snapped. “And be careful.”

“Well, I can be fast,” he tucked his head back under the pedestal and returned to work. 

Orion tilted his head to the side, and raised his hands, “I don’t mean to question your beliefs—in fact, I’m asking this just out of curiosity: do you truly believe the Creation Matrix existed?” 

Vector nodded, “Of course. Just because something is lost does not mean it stops existing.”

Even still, Orion could absolutely understand the perspectives of skeptics who found it difficult to believe the first of their race came from a single piece of technology that could fit in the palm of one’s hand. From what little anyone knew about how the photon crystals worked, it seemed more believable to Orion that the Creation Matrix was initially a digital program with data that could be transferred only to the unfathomably ancient technology that was the “crystals”. What was generally agreed upon was that each Matrix Flame activated by these devices contained a limited set of specifications for brain-patterns suited to physical forms and transformations. They represented pieces of a larger puzzle—a Prime Program that inherited an infinite catalogue of potential frames. The Overlords did not possess every crystal, but it was in their programming to leave the Underworlders to their own devices where possible, and the Overlords had enough Flames and body types to run their society for millennia. Perhaps too many. The gift of producing life and raising the young was granted to the people—it was unfortunate the gift of mortality was not. Even if Transformers were never immortal.

Orion stared at the Flame. Watching as the small crimson orange ones and zeroes crackled in and out of existence.

“Has Hot Rod shared our House Words with you, Orion Pax?”

Orion shook his head.

“While I enjoy speaking of my beliefs, I hope you understand that my intention is to impart knowledge; not to force my beliefs upon you. I already understand that in identifying our God as Primus, that in naming ourselves ‘The Primes’ we textually place ourselves above other Cybertronians. I assure you that our philosophies do not reflect this in any form.”

“I see. What are your words?”

“‘Til all are one.”

There was something immediately striking, and familiar about these words to Orion. 

Vector noticed this and continued. “As I said, time as we know it is a construct. We cannot grasp it the way Primus can, and attempting to do so is hopeless. It is the belief passed down to us by our ancestors that when a Cybertronian dies, they return to the Matrix, where Primus is waiting. Primus will then send you back—reincarnate you as another Cybertronian. Perhaps you will be reborn as one of the Elder Circuits, three million years in the past, or perhaps you will be reborn as a new Cybertronian altogether, a millennium in the future. When you are reborn, the when and where is always in flux.”

Orion frowned as he tried to wrap his head around it, “So, if I were to be reincarnated in the past, wouldn’t that would mean it would be technically possible for me to meet… myself at some point.”

“Indeed. And this happens quite often. Always, in fact. Forever. We are all the very same child of Primus, Orion Pax. And you and I are one and the same. As such, every good thing you do for another, you do to yourself. Every instance of harm you inflict upon another, you inflict upon yourself. When we say that all are one in the eyes of Primus, we mean it down to our very sparks. One day, when we have gathered all the information about the universe that we require—when we fulfill our grand purpose— we will return as one to Primus, and begin the process anew with our own child. The Matrix will be passed down from one to another, and our sparks will forever be eternal.”

“‘Till all are one,” Orion, the skeptic, said to himself, smiling. “Huh.”

Vector watched his reaction carefully, “Tell me, Orion, have you ever been able to read the Flame?”

“I never learned how to, no.”

He seemed to chuckle quietly under his expressionless stare, “It is not what is learned, but what the Flame chooses to share.”

“I see.”

Vector Prime’s voice lowered. “And what do you see, Orion Pax? Some have told me that they have seen the threads of their physical fates within the flames. What does it tell of your fate, I wonder?”

Orion stared, and he concentrated, and he tried to see what Vector saw—when he gazed upon the essence of his creator made manifest. His communicube went off. It was Ariel finally getting back to him, asking him where he was. At this stage, Orion did not care to check it. It seemed like the more he concentrated on the Flame, the more he saw…

Nothing.

They were just ones and zeroes. 

The fate of Orion Pax appeared to have been nothingness.

The Matrix Flame extinguished, leaving a single gray wisp of holographic ones trailing from the pedestal. The ancient microchip which they dubbed a “crystal” was now visible where the digital fires had raged moments ago.

Hot Rod poked his head out the side of the pedestal.

“Did I get it?”  
\-----

Autobiography of a Mask Seller – Kaon

It’s funny when you consider how events that feel redundant, or insurmountable at the time of their occurrence link to greater things down the road. If I could see the future in the Matrix Flame of the Blades, I would have recognized our meeting with Overlord Aleph as the first step towards Kaon’s evolution into what it is now. Gozenarch Blade, Tarantulas and I were almost running late. We left in advance to beat the air traffic and find available parking, but this was in short supply in those days, and we found little success. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a choice. Tarantulas couldn’t fly and Gozenarch’s alternate mode wasn’t eligible to be used without a permit due to some legislation passed by the Tribal Assembly. Still, we eventually did find parking after about an hour of Gozenarch shouting at the traffic. At the very least it gave me the time to pick out a facial decal to wear for the Overlord.

We landed and began to transport ourselves to the main transport train leading to the Temple of Aleph by foot. It’s unfortunate business. I’ve never put myself above others for my flight capabilities, or below others for my Decepticon-derived military frame. Like the Overlords, Gozenarch, Tarantulas and I are Autobots whose frames and programming were originally designed by Decepticon mechanosmiths and flame settings. If not for warriors like us, we would still be ruled by Decepticons who sought to subjugate Cybertron’s less fortunate, rather than war-built Autobots who sought to protect them. That is what made the Overlords the superior life-forms of this planet. Decepticon physical prowess to aid in the defence of our nation—but with the moral codes of liberty and anti-colonialism from their Autobot programming. Still, walking instead of flying around wasn’t exactly a great time, and there were fewer options for people like us outside of the typical access to essential services. Our minds and bodies are something we must suffer through in this life—it is something we Blades found honour in. However, the real issue at hand was navigating through Kaon’s streets.

Empties littered the walkways, begging for spare change. We passed a fight outside an oil-house within minutes. There was always some form of law enforcement speeding down the streets. Merchants shouted at us. The smells and sounds of demolitions and construction filled our sensors. Kaon was dangerous. It was perfect for us.

As such, we would huddle closer to Gozenarch as she paused every few blocks to bend over (in front of Tarantulas) and massage her weakened legs. “Great Armageddemnon Blade and the Primes say our bodies are as immortal as the mind allows. HAH, if that were true, I would be backflipping to the Overlord right now. I did that once, you know. Back in ‘32.”

“Yeah, but you know what they say when they compare the House of Prime to us,” I said, flexing my knowledge, “If Primus makes food, then the Ultimate Warrior cooks.”

Our house only had sayings like this because of the interlacing of the Ultimate Warrior’s history with that of the histories of Cybertron’s other various deities. Some families worshipped interpretations of him, like us. Others viewed him as an opposite number to their own deities, such as that of the Primes, or the Wavelengths. We were on good terms with most of them, but only really the ones with half a presence in Kaon.

Gozenarch looked up and raised an index finger, “Hah! True to that!” 

Tarantulas hummed, “I could easily find a way to enhance your leg joints, with the right technologies.”

She shook her ancient head and we continued our trek. “Tarantulas, you flatter me. But I was considered one of the deadliest military Autobots in history. You can’t access parts of my frame without a permit. I’d pay you twice the cost of the technology if you could procure it through legal means.”

Tarantulas tilted his head to the side and rubbed his claws together, “I’m sure I could figure something out. Worst comes to worst, I can always crawl around the dark web...”

They shared a quiet chuckle at the prospect of procuring illegal technologies, but I admittedly got a bit sensitive to this kind of thing, “Keep your voice down, we are five minutes away from the temple gates. Do you really want to have that conversation here?”

Tarantulas rolled all eight of his eyes. “I said nothing remotely incriminating.”

His master grinned through her faceplate and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hah, you devil. I picked up what you were proverbially ‘throwing-down’.”

Tarantulas bowed his head, “My apologies, Gozenarch. It would seem as though I have overloaded my humour circuits for the cycle.”

I kept my optics locked forward, “I’ll say.”

Gozenarch placed a claw on my shoulder, “Oh, relax, we are all cracked in the head to some extent, and, sadly, require mending.”

We began to pass by an Empty, sitting on a street corner, carrying a picket-sign written in one of the ancient Decepticon languages. It read something about being deceived, I think. You could tell he was ill in some form from the way his frame seemed to rock to keep his joints from freezing up.

Gozenarch gestured to the empty with one servo and covered her mouth with the other. “Here. You’re about to see an example.”

The robot immediately tried to speak to us as we passed. “Excuse me, ma’am. Is there any way you could spare a droplet of oil for a poor victim of our Government’s complacency?”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” she snapped at the robot, as we proceeded down the walkway. After a few steps, Gozenarch turned herself around and jabbed a finger at the Empty. “And another thing, show some modicum of respect for your leaders. They are doing everything they can to ensure your survival during this famine.” She turned around once more and we continued our trek. After a moment, we realized the robot had started following us.

“He’s still there,” Gozenarch whispered

“He’s not worth it,” I said.

“Waste of time,” Tarantulas agreed.

“Ma’am!” The robot leaked lubricants as he limped closer. “Ma’am, wait for me!”

Gozen turned her head, “I’m not your ma’am. That’s a designation for retired, broken-down femmes like your progenitor. I am neither of those things.”

“I just wanted to apologize.”

I placed myself between Gozenarch and the empty. Black wires. Black wires. “Excellent,” I said. “Now that you have, please eff off.”

“You see, I was once a soldier under Overlord Skybreaker. Fourth division of the—.”

Gozenarch moved me aside and moved closer to the empty. “And I am Senator Gozenarch Blade. Former Commanding General of Skybreaker’s forces, Senator of Kaon, and Matris Flamilias to the House of the Blade.”

“I know, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

“I know all about the Blade’s code of honour, which is why I ask that you assist an old warrior without a home. The Overlords are not who they once were. Surely you see that. I do not know if their minds are debilitating, or if they have been taken over by aliens as those conspiracy theorists say, but they refuse to give pension for older military mechs like ourselves without applicable frames to their society. I was wondering if you could—.”

“What? Wax to Overlord Aleph about your plight? I am from the military caste, and my House is of the most prosperous in Kaon. What’s your excuse?”

“No offence, but you were a military general. I was just a front-liner. The Overlords rewarded you but forgot all about people like me.”

Tarantulas scoffed, sounding almost entertained. “You have a lot of nerve, old cog. I like that.”

I began to drift away from the scene, beckoning Gozenarch to follow, it seemed to work to some extent.

“I sincerely hope you are merely ignorant of the fact that you are disparaging an office of which I myself am a part of,” she said, backing away from the old mech. “There is but one omen that is above all others in this world, and that is defending the fatherland. I implore you to consider that the next time you decide to grovel before an official. If you approach me again, you will be speaking to my lictors.” She turned to me and waved a claw in the direction of the temple. “Let’s roll.”

“I could bring him back to the House,” Tarantulas suggested, hunched, squinting and wry. “Show him around, serve him for—serve him some fuel. Make sure he’s comfortable, heh.”

“Just drop it,” I said, still watching the empty. He seemed shaken, like he was about to fall apart at the seams. Then he made his mistake.

“Get fragged in the rear-thruster then, ma’am!”

Gozenarch spun herself around on her heels, ripped Tarantulas and I out of the way, and raged towards the empty. 

She grabbed him by the throat, and with considerable strength crashed his frame into the nearest building. The shock clearly dislodged something in the smaller mech’s aged systems, and he began to leak semi-processed oil from his mouth. With her free hand, Gozenarch began repeatedly battering the empty’s head in with her fist. 

“You cruel creature! You little mite of a thing with a fuel-pump the size of a full-stop! CALL ME MA’AM ONE MORE TIME!” 

Tarantulas bent over laughing at the display, though half of it seemed to be out of nerves. I stood, watching Gozenarch pound her fists into this poor mech. The Matris Flamilas of a House was, legally, the owner of that House’s Flame, those born from it, and all possessions owned by the members of the house. She owned Tarantulas and I. Anyone within our society that chose to go against the wishes of their progenitor was typically frowned upon, if not arrested forthright if the charges were strong enough. Should a dispute about property under a house be made, the Matris, or Pater, would always be the victor. 

But really, it was just dishonourable to go against the wishes of your progenitor. It was tantamount to going against the Warrior God, and I had no desire to do so, or face Gozenarch’s wrath. And I respected her, goddammit. But I knew she was making a mistake. Not because I thought it would get her arrested—nobody was going to arrest a Senator in Kaon whose face was on our 25.0 currency, but because she was inadvertently dishonouring herself. As I watched the poor mech’s dental plates clatter on the ground before him, I ultimately ran to Gozenarch, pulling her massive body off the poor creature and directing her to move forward. 

“He’s not worth it,” I said, trying to usher her away from the pulped robot. “You know that. He’s not a worthy opponent in the slightest.”

“He claims to be one!”

“Come on, he’s clearly not. He doesn’t even want to fight!”

“Then he should be burned alive!”

Each time I grabbed her shoulder to pull her away, she would shrug me off. “You shouldn’t even be considering his tire-prints,” I practically begged. “If he were a worthy warrior, we would be too busy parrying his blows to have this conversation! If combat is an art that tests us in meaningful ways then this is not combat. There is nothing valiant about this.”

“So, let him submit to me! Only the Warrior God—only the God of Death is so relentless as I! Death submits to no-one! That is why our master is the most hated of our world’s deities! He should bow to me! I am the Grand Matriarch of our House! I am the face of the Ultimate Warrior! I am—” 

She stopped herself. The black wires I sensed in her processor untangled themselves. “Holy motherboard of the God Hand, you’re right. What the hell am I saying?”

I relaxed and allowed my ventilation systems to release air. I knew my words would sink in eventually. Though she had a lot to deal with, internally, she was still an Autobot of honour.

Then, she smacked me across the face so hard I had to grab Tarantulas for support. My fellow lictor’s visor widened, and he began to laugh nervously as he helped me obtain my bearings.

She dug her index talon so forcefully against my chest it felt as though I was about to be impaled. “Your masks and art supplies will be locked in storage until further notice.”

I began pressing my digits against the spot on my face she hit. Part of the mask I had been wearing at the time had broken off, and the paint had smudged. “Gozen, I am over one-thousand years old. I am not some protoform that needs her devices taken away to get the point.”

“Yes, remind everyone about your age why don’t you? Because we all know that if anything ever happens to me, you will become the Matris of the Blade. You will get to tell your housemates what to do. But as of now, you have no right to demand anything of anyone. Least of all me. From now on, you allow my mistakes to be my own, and take care to remind yourself of your place in this world, and in my House.” 

She turned away from the crippled empty and proceeded along the walkway. Some passersby were watching, but assaults such as this, particularly against the homeless, were commonplace in Kaon, and many of them began continuing their daily rituals.

I nearly began kicking the empty where he lay curled on the ground for what he had said and done. Even now I feel myself toeing the line just thinking about what happened that day, though I think it’s a different flavour of rage now compared to how it was then. At the time, I blamed the empty for this, even though it was my own choice to intervene. I was upset about losing my access to my craft—my everything, and the mask I had carefully crafted for our summons with the Overlord was ruined. I was going to look pathetic, undignified. Thinking back, it’s funny how seriously I took all of this. I was upset about losing things. I didn’t know yet that you never possess anything forever in life. You never possess life forever, either. Everything is loaned. So how can you lose something you’ve never owned? The things I would say to past Windblade. Oh, the things I would tell her.

After some time, walking in thought, Gozenarch, without looking at me, spoke once more in a soft hush. “Thank you, though, for reminding me, Windblade. As I said, we are all in need of mending these days…” I indeed remember her saying this. I think. I sometimes wonder if I only remember this because I wanted to hear it so badly at the time. Minds can be like that. 

I never saw that empty again. Tarantulas apologized for failing to intervene, reasoning that he did not wish to disobey Gozenarch’s wishes, which left us both somewhat satisfied. 

We reached the gates to the temple, where a train and various guards awaited us. We were immediately allowed through, boarded the train, and sat by the window as it shot us directly from Kaon’s city-scape into the open deserts where the temple was isolated. The buildings around us disappeared, until all that could be seen were dunes of silver grains of metallic sand, wind-swept planes, and eroded Titan-parts dotting the landscape. The temple entered our vision as a white speck, then began to grow and expand as we drew nearer. Its pillars the size of skyscrapers. Overlord Aleph operated far and away from the GKA, with handfuls of attendants and praetorians to keep the excellency company. We exited the shuttle and climbed the various steps leading into the towering white structure. Inside, an attendant holding a data-pad led us to the main lobby to wait. There was no flooring at the base-level of the temple. Rather, we, along with the rest of the Overlord’s attendants, would walk across combed metal sands through the waiting area. Small dunes accumulated from metallic grains falling from the cracks in the ceiling like the sands in an hourglass.

The area was occupied by various whispering attendants, drifting in their dune-buggy modes over the metallic sands that made up the temple floor, not one of them pausing to admire any of the paintings lining the walls, depicting our race’s manic history. There was one of Overlord Aleph heroically leaping, spear in hand, against a legion of sharp, multi-jointed, red-eyed, mandible-mouthed Decepticon forces. I will be the first to preach about how overwhelming the Overlord’s heroism was in this depiction, and the protests in the outer cities did nothing to dissuade my thoughts on this.

“Windblade, look!” Gozenarch excitedly pointed at one of the paintings. “It’s me!” A stylized, young Gozenarch could be seen in the background of a portrait depicting Overlord’s Supremis, Skybreaker, and the late Overlord Godmaster, standing poised over the ancient Decepticon Red Spider, hunched over on his digitigrade legs, submitting his forces to them. I could spot some other faces in the frame, like the ancient ‘Liege’ mechanosmith, the Magister Militums of Tarn and Kaon, Galaxy Convoy and his once all-powerful flamilias, Praetorians Ravage and Nightstalker, and the Emirs of Iacon. 

“This will only be a moment, Senator Blade,” the robed attendant said. “The Grand Chamberlain will be arriving any minute now to guide you to the meeting chamber.”

“Very good, that will be all,” Gozenarch said and flicked a coin into the mech’s palms as some means of tipping him. The coin had her face on it. “Treat yourself to an oil-cake or whatever it is you young people consume these days.”

The mech stared at the coin for a moment, then, seemingly dumbfounded, transformed into a dune-buggy and sped away.

I took her aside and muttered into her audio-receptor. “You know that guy probably makes double minimum wage, right? He’s not like a waiter or room service or anything. You’re not supposed to tip him.”

Tarantulas regarded us with surprise, “You guys tip?”

Gozenarch brought a digit to her chin, “Huh, well, actually now that you mention it, I don’t care. What I am interested in is the Grand Chamberlain’s apparent presence here.”

Tarantulas wriggled his mandibles in thought and shrugged, “Perhaps you’ve been summoned in response to a financial dispute.”

“There’s got to be something more to it than that,” I said. “If it wasn’t confidential on some level then they would have just phoned.”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know what’s coming, but whatever it is, I’ll go to it laughing,” Gozenarch turned to the both of us, claws on her hips. “And by the way, I will hear no words of protest from either of you. Be they directed at me or any other party present within those chambers. Rather, I should hear no words, period. You are both extensions of myself hereon in. The Overlords, as far either of you is concerned, are your Gods, and you are only allowed to be in their presence because I allow it. Is that clear?”

“Of course.”

“As you command.”

“Capital,” she turned to face the dune in the center of the room as vibrations began to shake the sands around them. “Here he comes.”

A titanic mechanical arthropod burst from the sands, sending grains scattering across the room. The creature was practically three times the size of Gozenarch, its segmented tail reaching the top of the temple’s ceiling. Massive violet claws clicked before a small, pincered head connected to a gluttonous abdomen. The Grand Chamberlain’s many spindly legs scuttled across the metallic sands towards Gozenarch. He was so large that he may as well have walked right over us. Our heads didn’t even reach the belly of his scorpion form. 

Gozenarch bowed to him, “Grand Chamberlain Scorponok. It is our honour to serve in your glorious presence.”

The creature clicked his claws in anticipation, his voice groaned and vibrated through his mandibles, “My, my, my. If it isn’t Gozenarch Blade. I do miss your bouts of unrestrained awe. It must have been orns since I last set my median optics upon your faceplate.”

“I doubt you’ve found a reason to visit considering I actually pay my taxes.”

“Really?” his legs skittered, and he began to rotate his body to face the Overlord’s chambers. He looked back at us with his small, pincered head, “Well, I don’t.”

The two robots laughed wickedly as they began their advance towards the main chamber. 

And yes, I want to make that statement doubly clear in this document. Grand Chamberlain Scorponok openly admitted to us, without any sense of irony, that he does not pay his taxes. I understand that’s a bold statement to make about someone as politically renowned as him, and I am sure he will have much to say about it, but I don’t care what anyone thinks the truth is. I’m writing this down for me. Moving on.

As we followed, Tarantulas leaned toward me and muttered, “You were saying about the discussion of illegal activities within the presence of—?”

“Be quiet,” I snapped. “I can already sense your smartass comments from your thought patterns, so don’t waste my time.”

Tarantulas stopped, blinked at me, and huffed. “Witch.”

Gozenarch began to carry a more professional air as we followed Scorponok down the corridor to the main meeting chambers. “Do you know what this is about?” Gozenarch asked the Chamberlain. “It doesn’t have to do with the construction of that new prison-system, does it? Because you know where I stand when it comes to how the state should deal with our convicts…”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Scorponok rasped, “It’s somewhat unfortunate business, but I am exceptionally confident that the threat it poses will be mitigated in due time.” 

We reached the Overlord’s meeting chamber, and from Scorponok’s tail shifted a small purple key. He waved it in front of our faces, then used it to unlock the massive doors. Inside was a wide, open chamber with a long dining table set in the center. Sitting at the end of the long table was the massive Overlord Aleph. Her body was long, and spindly, with no discernible alternate mode to make out, whereas her colours were a pale, almost green-tinted silver, and were more indicative to that of a dead mech. Her head resembled that of a Sharkticon with half its body missing. In its place were long tendrils and wires that draped down her back. A gargantuan Flame of the Lords raging behind her head acted as the sole form of illumination in the room, as trails of metallic sand leaked from the ceiling and gathered in dunes on the ground. She was flanked by her Praetorian Guard. Most of them mechanical avians, raptoricons, insecticons, and panthera. Unlike Overlord Gladiaron’s, I am certain they all had robot modes. They prowled for a time, then disappeared into the shadows around the room’s periphery. The lights of their optics watched us from the shadows as we bowed to her. Scorponok transformed—rotating his body, standing up, and detaching and reattaching his head—before completing his change into robot-mode. He bowed and sat at the closest adjacent seat at the table to Overlord Aleph. 

“My lord,” Gozenarch said, rising. “I have answered your summons. How may I serve your excellency?”

Though it was impossible to read Aleph’s expressionless face, she seemed morose and disinterested. After a moment of silence, she spoke in a firm, masculine voice. “Scorponok.”

“Understood, my liege.” He gestured Gozenarch to the seat across from him, so that the two could discuss face-to-face while Aleph supervised in the center. “Here, knowing you, you’ll want to sit down for this.”

She did so, optics widening, “Uh-oh. What is it?”

Scorponok clasped his claws together, his air of confidence could be considered putrid by some. “Now, now. Don’t be so alarmed, Blade, it doesn’t suit you! The reason you are here is because, for the past eighteen solar-cycles, I have been reviewing Kaon’s cheque stubs and discovered a very troubling occurrence. It appears that Kaon has been subjected to an unprecedented rise in our economy’s inflation.”

“I’ve noticed. My triple-filtered fuel costs twelve-times the amount it used to. Ridiculous! Even still, that means people are buying, no? Is that not what you business moguls are after?”

“No. Well, yes, but no, that’s not what’s happening here at all. My chief economists have conducted further research into the matter and found something rather disquieting. It would appear that there has been an increase in Kaon’s money supply as well.”

“And?”

“And this is Kaon. Despite our best efforts in plunging our tax dollars into the construction of our housing and penitentiary solutions, much of our grossly bloated population has little to no interest in buying large. Or buying at all for that matter.”

“…And?”

“And tourism is practically nonexistent, so we haven’t been receiving what you would consider a healthy sum of foreign income either.”

She blinked.

Scorponok tilted his head back and let out a frustrated. “Come now, Gozenarch, do you need me to paint an entire portrait for you? Someone has been generating an unauthorized artificial increase in our money supply!”

“Oh, I see.” She folded her arms, seeming somewhat disappointed. “So, you summoned me here because the state has been subjected to… counterfeiting.” 

“Naturally, we wouldn’t have bothered you with such trivialities if it didn’t correlate with you directly, Senator.”

“Correlate with—excuse me? I know you don’t think I’m responsible for this!”

Scorponok raised his claws in apology, “Why, of course not. You see, the brand of faux currency that is currently being disseminated bears the face of, well…”

As soon as it had clicked in Gozen’s head, she burst from her seat, grabbed her chair, and flung it across the room—inadvertently bonking one of the Overlord’s Praetors on the head. “Spawn of a glitch! Those bastards are counterfeiting my face! How—why!? Because they think they can get away with it if there isn’t an Overlord on the coin!? HAH! Imbeciles!”

“Not only that, but they have also been using your face to steal from our state government!” Scorponok slammed his claws against the table. “This not only affects the acceptability of our physical currencies but prevents our businesses from reimbursing what has been lost by these thieves! Our buying power is dwindling, and this avarice towards one of our most prestigious Houses and supporters cannot and shall not be ignored!”

Overlord Aleph suddenly raised an arm over her head and, imitating Scorponok, crashed her massive fist into the table. A wide, concave imprint of her fist remained in the twisted metal, ruining the intricate carvings that had adorned it. She growled for a few seconds, leaving us all bewildered as to what was going through her head. None of us were brave enough to acknowledge it, however. If you have ever been in the presence of an Overlord, you would know how terrifying some of them could be. Gozenarch and Scorponok studied Aleph for a moment. But when nothing further was said, Gozenarch continued. 

“Agreed,” Gozenarch began pacing back and forth in front of the table. Occasionally, she would glance up at the massive Overlord Aleph, who remained in the same position as before. “On the day of my ascension, I pledged that my House would stand in defence of anything that threatened the nation we built. I have personally trained them all in the arts of metallikato, and taught them the same codes of honour your excellency has imbued upon the Grand Chamberlain and myself.” Scorponok nodded in his support, and Gozenarch’s fist tightened. “You show me who is responsible, my liege, and my lictors will bring these thieves to justice.”

As she said this to Aleph, the Overlord began, perhaps unintentionally, to chuckle, almost mockingly at Gozenarch. 

Scorponok cleared his throat. “Ah-hah. I had a feeling you would see it that way, my dear. We have already compiled a list of suspects who have received questionably high deposits into their accounts—generally around the time we think they began producing these false profits. We thought it disrespectful to your image were we to go through with solving this problem without your consultation.”

Aleph’s voice boomed, frightening pretty much everyone in the room, the prowling Praetorian Guard included. “Magister Militum Thrust will supply you with additional bodies,” drawled the Overlord. “Please note that we did not call you here to make you do our work for us.”

“Excellent,” Gozenarch said, more in response to Aleph’s brief lucidity than to the acquisition of warriors at her disposal. There was determination in her voice, and yet she seemed disappointed by the summons on various levels. She looked as if she just watched the entire world speed past her. Perhaps she realized how changed Aleph and Scorponok now were compared to the warriors she once knew and worried about what it said about herself. She faced us, and we bowed once more to the Senator, the Grand Chamberlain, and the Overlord.

“Windblade! Tarantulas! My most loyal lictors! Our house has been dishonoured! Our state has been attacked! What have you both sworn to do in the face of such adversities?”

“We have sworn to defend our house and country from any adversary that would dare challenge it.”

The Flame seemed to glow brighter behind her. Aleph and Scorponok’s silhouettes positioned at either side of her frame. I looked upon her and saw the Ultimate Warrior incarnate. I saw my master. And my dedication, as ever, was resolute. “You will joint-lead a strike team before nightfall and bring these spit-valves to justice! Kaon is infested with these vermin. Now do as your Overlord commands! Wipe away the scum from the streets of Kaon—the unrecyclable filth that mocks us! So that our great nation may rise from the ashes once more! For Kaon!”

I raised my head. I had disappointed my House once already that day. I vowed that I would never do so again. “For Kaon!”

\----

The Once and Future – The Underworld

The Decepticon studied Grimlock from top to bottom, visibly impressed by the Dinobot’s physical mass. The fire blazed between them. “A pleasure to meet you, Grimlock. I happen to like your name very much. I find it… relatable.”

Grimlock said nothing. He simply pulled out his blade and began sharpening it against the steel of the cavern’s walls. Acid rain leaking through the mountainside would condense at the roof of the cave, and drop upon the fire, causing it to spike in intensity every now and then.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” the Decepticon tilted his head to the side and his maw grinned. “Can you even say anything beyond “Me, Grimlock”, I wonder?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that disproves my theory, then.”

Grimlock snorted at the crouching Decepticon, and continued sharpening his blade. Every now and then he would wipe the grease and grime from it, though the heat of the sparks against the stone would gradually melt the waste and make it easier to clean.

“My apologies, I am being awfully rude to you, aren’t I? I haven’t quite introduced myself yet. I am, well, I have gone by many names: D:2143, The Red Spider, The Sycophant. These days I prefer to go by The Last Decepticon.”

“What about the—”

“Sorry, I would have gone by The Last Decepticon That Wasn’t a Sellout to his Race, but I think you would agree that it doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.”

Grimlock eyed the silicon ovals hanging on the walls of the cave. 

“Ah, those are my hatchling pods. I filled them with fuel and livestock energy so that the metals contained within may expand into full-sized bodies. Beautiful, aren’t they? The Matrix Flame in my chest can only give life to specific Decepticon frames, so I’ve designed these pods to eliminate the need to build bodies from scratch. It is the least I can do to expand our race.”

“Our,” Grimlock sniffed and scraped his blade against the stone. “Thought you were the last.”

“I am. Of the original Decepticons who fought in the war, that is. There are descendants, of course. Anyone built with military-coding is truly a Decepticon at heart. You yourself are one of them.”

“‘m not.”

“Oh-hohoh! So modest! So modest! Look at you. Those teeth on your back, those tree-trunk arms, that brain-module the size of a pin-tip! You were built to protect mother Cybertron. And yet they cast you out. Like me. Even if the Overworld does not refer to your kind as Decepticons—even if they started making you look more like Autobots—you are still of the same mesh and coding as I.”

The Dinobot decided to ignore him.

The Last Decepticon picked up a chunk of metal littered at the floor and threw it violently at the cavern wall, “What’s wrong with you? Get angry! Get enraged! These Autobots dismissed you like a dog! So why do you stand by? Surely you—"

Grimlock pointed the tip of his blade at The Last Decepticon’s chin, steam fizzing from his jaw as he spoke. “You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout me. So, shut up,” he retreated his blade and returned to sharpening it.

The Last Decepticon raised his claws in mock-surrender. “Point taken. Even still, there will be more of us. In time, I will spawn an army, and we shall retake our place as guardians of the cosmos.” He stood and raised a clenched talon to the ceiling. “The Autobots will be crushed beneath our heels, and our lost empires will be reclaimed. That is cosmic destiny, Grimlock. That is the fate of the Decepticons!” 

An acid droplet fell upon the flame, and the fire intensified for a brief moment.

“Okay...”

The Last Decepticon dropped his servos and sat back down. “You sound unimpressed.”

“Nothin’ to be impressed about. You didn’t win the war. You’re a loser. You lost.”

“Oh, did I lose?” He leaned closer to Grimlock, “We established the grandest cosmic empire in the galaxy. We dominated over thousands of lifeforms. Everything you see built around you was built by your Decepticon progenitors. We made Cybertron. The Autobots had the simple audacity to steal it from us.”

“If your empire’s so big then where is it?” Grimlock was somewhat curious, although he did not care to show it. The engineer once told him of the numerous texts and evidence of a galaxy-spanning empire existing under Decepticon control. However, any trace of these conquered planets had been wiped clean from the face of the Galaxy. There were too many references to conquered planets and vast empires for the entire thing to be a ruse—and yet if these colonies indeed existed, where did they go?

To answer his question, The Last Decepticon merely pointed a sharp, bony digit to the ceiling. “Right there.” And then he pointed to the ground. “And right here.” He smiled knowingly at the Dinobot. 

Grimlock sniffed, and returned to his work, “Whatever.” His interest in the conversation had already dissipated.

“I wonder—what do you plan to do, Grimlock? Do you plan to wander this island for the all eternity like a lost K9, or do you want to read your name in history books someday?”

“Don’t read. But I have a plan.”

“Oh?” 

A droplet fell upon the flame. It expanded, then receded.

“Gonna get off this island…” Grimlock slammed the edge of his blade against the wall to test it. A loud clang reverberated throughout the cave, “…gonna punch Overlord Supremis in the face.” 

“Don’t do that, you idiot!” The Last Decepticon snapped. He quickly turned his head to stare deeper into the cave, then faced Grimlock once more. “Not the beating Supremis thing—definitely do that! But don’t make so much noise! I told you there is a creature dwelling beneath this mountain! It sleeps, but if it were to awaken it would devour us both—think of the hatchlings!”

Grimlock scoffed, “Why you live here then if you’re so smart? Callin’ me an idiot.”

Another droplet. The fire raged, then died down again.

The Last Decepticon raised a digit, “Because it is hibernating. It has accumulated stacks of bodies and fuel in its den—enough to last me and my hatchlings for deca-cycles. I still send my two mentees on hunts to build character, but otherwise, I don’t even need to leave this cave as long as I’m quiet.”

Unsatisfied with the sharpness of his blade, Grimlock continued grinding it against the steel. 

The Last Decepticon stared at him. “One day you’ll see, Grimlock. Not all of my hatchlings have survived, but some have. My children Annihilator and Destroyer will be back from their hunt soon enough, and you will witness the unfathomable potential they both carry inside of them.”

Another droplet.

“Potential? Heh…”

“Yes, Grimlock.” The Last Decepticon began to grin. “My master, the founder of the Decepticons, once saw potential in me as well. His name… I don’t know how to translate it. Metatron perhaps. The Pater Flamilias of Cybertronic culture and advancement. He knew that the Warrior God was watching our backs. Just as he watches yours.”

“Okay...”

“The Autobots cast you here, Grimlock. Trapped you on this island to toil alone for an eternity. I can see your hatred for them burning inside of you. Why don’t you join us? With your power, we can tear down this pitiful existence and establish a new world order.”

The rain stopped.

Grimlock sniffed, finished polishing his sword, and stood. “No.” He slowly began to walk away from the Last Decepticon, finding no further reason to stay. “I don’t mess around with the weak.”

“Ah, if you were to see my successful hatchlings, you’d change your mind. They can configure themselves into—”

“A tank and a mining vehicle, right?” Grimlock said. “They speared me, so I killed them. Not so tough after all. Guess you really are the ‘Last Decepticon’.”

The Last Decepticon went quiet as he began to wrap his head around the situation. “Oh…” The Last Decepticon stared at his hands. “Oh.”

As Grimlock moved to leave the cave. He examined his sharpened, polished blade. There were still some scratches and specks of grime on it, but he could see his reflection, nonetheless. He could also see, reflected in the metal, the image of the Last Decepticon creeping up behind him with a curved scimitar, poised to strike.

The tyrannosaur head on Grimlock’s back partially transformed, shifted, and faced the Decepticon, letting out a loud, thundering roar and catching the ancient being by surprise.

The Decepticon dropped the scimitar, “What have you done?”

Before Grimlock could complete his transformation, a louder, ear-splitting screech echoed from deep within the cavern, causing the walls to shake. 

Grimlock and the Last Decepticon froze. The latter whimpered. “You woke him! If he discovers we’re here, grab the hatchlings and run—"

The Dweller burst from the darkness of the cavern, screaming, its tentacles writhing and its dish-shaped eyes glowing white with dread. The Last Decepticon transformed into a tetrajet and the Dweller extended a massive barrel-like tentacle, grabbing the ancient plane by the wing and feeding him into his open circular mouth, consuming The Last Decepticon whole with a sickening crunch. The Dweller let out another piercing scream that shook the entire cave, its tentacles writhing as saliva and pieces of tetrajet dripped down its maw.

“Holy FUCK!”

Grimlock dashed towards the exit of the tight confines of the cavern and the Dweller, with its untold speed, tackled him. The Dinobot burst through the walls hosting the hatchlings, popping them in the process, and found himself outside the cavern once more. He began to roll down the side of the acid-damp cliff-face, smashing his ribs against the metallic rocks as he tumbled. He grabbed hold of one of the metallic trees lining the mountainside to stop his fall, but a massive tentacle crashed into him once more, sending him soaring into the cliff-face again. He shook his head. Dizzy. Could barely focus. Where—

The Dweller grabbed the saurian with another tentacle and lifted him off the ground. The creature slowly, yet forcefully began to feed Grimlock into its maw, feet first. The Dinobot, in turn let out a burst of flames from his mouth, singing its techno-organic face, yet causing it to bite down on one of his legs, causing it to break off completely. The worm-like creature screamed and dropped the Dinobot onto the metallic ground. Hard. Still gathering his bearings, Grimlock felt another tentacle grab at one of his small, saurian arms. With some strength, he managed to keep himself from being picked up again, but the Dweller managed to rip off his small arm, along with the side of his ribcage. Transforming into robot mode. Grimlock now lacked half his backpack and an arm. At least he would only need one to hold a sword. 

Grimlock knew, this fight would be hot.

Good.

Another tentacle shot towards Grimlock, which the Dinobot in turn sliced in half. The Dweller screeched, and fluids began to flow from the stump. Interestingly, the fluids appeared to have been red. That wasn’t how most robots bled. But this was not Grimlock’s primary concern at the moment. He attempted to leap at the Dweller, but it was too tall to effectively reach its head. Any attempt to slash its belly was blocked by a seemingly endless wall of tentacles. The Dweller grabbed Grimlock once more and threw him into the mountainside, cracking the struts in his back. As Grimlock attempted to rise once more, another tendril shot at him, which he promptly sliced in half—only for a third to wrap around him and throw him into one of the mechanical trees dotting the mountainside. The tree immediately transformed its stump and rocketed into the distance in response. The Dweller, slithering towards Grimlock, paused and blinked at the tree as it soared into the distant pink sk, the new source of movement seemingly confusing the massive Dweller. Recognizing this, Grimlock spied the walls of the mountainside and noticed several patterns in the metal. Burrows. 

He charged the Dweller once more, only for the repeated outcome as last time. It seemed the creature had given up on trying to eat him alive and was hell-bent on breaking every exo-bone in Grimlock’s body instead. Crashing into the cliff face, Grimlock unsheathed his blade and dug it deep into the walls, right where the burrows had been. As he retreated his blade, dozens of razor-pythons leaked out and began slithering across the ground before the Dweller.

The dumbstruck Dweller began swaying from side-to-side, unable to keep track of the all the individual slithering objects scattered before it. His distraction a success, Grimlock dashed to the nearest tree-former and began to climb. Upon reaching a suitable height, Grimlock slashed his blade against the bark prompting the tree to transform its stump into rocket-boosters and begin to take off. It ascended several feet into the air above the creature, Grimlock shifted his weight, maneuvering the tree so that the tip of its trunk faced the Dweller. He pumped his fist into the air and howled in delight as he sped towards the monstrosity. 

The tip of the rocket-tree impaled the Dweller through its back and out of its chest—skewering it against the cliff-side, where it screeched and writhed in agony. In turn, Grimlock leaped off the tree-trunk and plunged his blade into the back of the Dweller’s head. The Dweller continued to scream as red fluids sprayed from its chest and head. It thrashed, dislodging the tree, and began periodically slamming its backside against the metal of the cliff-side in hopes of sandwiching Grimlock to death. It was beginning to work. Grimlock’s body ached with each resounding crunch. Even still, he continued to stab the Dweller’s bulbous head, over, and over. Red spray staining his visor.

“Why won’t you die already!”

He stabbed again, and again, before finally, Grimlock’s dinosaur head on his back rotated downward, and a burst of flame began to shoot out of its maw, giving the Dinobot the thrust he needed to tear his blade into the scars lining the Dweller’s head. With one final thrust of his partially transformed backpack, he rocketed straight through the creature; severing the Dweller’s head from its body and killing it instantly.

As the Dweller fell, Grimlock landed into a roll and dug his blade into the ground to prevent him from tumbling any further. He was dripping head to pede in red fluids. The exhaustion hit him, and he fell to his knees, venting furiously. Aches and pains attacked his body like quakes, and his own black fluids had been leaking from his severed hand.

“You… dead,” he panted, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “Me… king.”

The Dweller’s body began to shake, and as Grimlock readied himself for a round two, an ancient, semi-digested tetra-jet burst from the creature’s headless corpse. The Last Decepticon transformed, sparked against the ground, and landed on his back mere meters away from the Dinobot. He was, quite literally, falling apart. The Last Decepticon reached out weakly to him. “Grimlock….”

Grimlock rose to his feet and approached The Last Decepticon. Dragging his sword behind him.

“Help me…” he tried to cough something up, but nothing left his maw, not even sound. “I’m wounded…. Save me and I can get you off this island.”

“Tried to kill me.” Sparks danced from his blade as he dragged it against the metal ground behind him.

“You have to. I am the last…”

“Tried to run like a coward instead of fight.” He raised his blade above his head, and the red fluids that had stained his servos began dripping down his arm. 

“The last…”

“When you see your God, tell him to get off my back.” Grimlock angled the blade so that the tip hovered over the ancient Decepticon’s forehead. 

“No, DON’T-- kkKSHHuhhk-.”

\-----

You - Styx

You were pulled over on Styx’s main expressway by some squat, impudent traffic cop looking for a reason to exercise his pitiful authority. Megastorm needed to step aside to pace off his anger, fearful that if he didn’t, it would get the better of him and he’d make a scene. Meganet is yapping in endless excitement about the ridiculousness of the law but seems content to be involved in the matter at all. It was her first time on an assignment in the city and she seemed eager to experience what she could before being shelved back inside with the other Megas. The officer of Styx licked his lips and tapped away on his tablet. 

“So, er, uh. Let me get this straight,” the officer said, jabbing his stylus at your faceplate. “Your name is Megatron.”

“Correct.”

He jabbed his stylus at Megastorm, “And he’s Megastorm…”

“Yes.”

“And she’s Mega…?” he grasped at the air, as if he could find the name, if not the reason for your naming pattern there.

“Listen, officer,” you try to identify him by his badge, but the ID code isn’t one you recognize. There are too many members of Styx law enforcement to thoughtfully keep track of. 

“Pig Iron. The name’s officer Pig Iron.”

How unfortunate. “Be reasonable… officer. We have strict orders from the Magister Militum to reach our meeting with the utmost punctuality. Review your personnel files and you will find our names listed under the Mega Division of Tarn’s Elite Guard task-force.”

Pig Iron scanned his tablet from top to bottom, “Yeah, I can see you and that Megastorm fella here…” he glanced up and frowned at Meganet, “not finding any record of you though.”

“Your database is obviously lagged!” she said, dramatically, “I should be right at the top!”

“Regardless,” you continue, “now that you have confirmed my identity, I am certain that my word should be more than enough to confirm the legitimacy of my associates.”

The office shrugged his beefy arms, “Ehhh, listen. I don’t make the rules, I just write up traffic tickets. You three were adopting military configurations in a non-aggression zone. I can’t allow you to pass through this street in vehicle mode.”

Meganet grimaced. “What are you even talking about? We’re not even armed!”

Pig Iron jabs a thumb at Megastorm, who was still pacing a few meters away. “I saw your friend over there transform from a tank.”

“Come on, is he really a tank if he doesn’t have a barrel on him?” Meganet points a digit at the pacing robot, who turns back and grimaces. “Look at him, he’s basically just a car with treads!” 

Megastorm grunts at her and Meganet simply shakes her head in response. “So sad!”

Pig Iron taps his clipboard irritably. “It’s a safety hazard thing, ma’am. Even if you weren’t threatening in the physical sense, it’s typical for military-grade mechs like yourself to have dangerous programming for civilians. Er… no offence.”

You can feel your power-core heat up and the wiring in your system tense. “Listen well, Pig… Iron. We aren’t a threat to anyone on these roads, nor do we intend to be.” You count off the facts on your fingertips. “We are unarmed, our alternate forms pose no threat to you, and our oncoming appointment is currently a high-priority task for the sake of Styx’s continued protection.”

“Oh really? What’s this ‘appointment’ about, anyhow?”

“That is classified info for Elite Guard personnel only.”

“And say, I didn’t even see half a you’se transform—how’s I supposed to know you don’t have weapons in your alt mode.”

“I reserve my legal right to keep what I transform into private.”

“You better believe he has that right!” Megastorm interjects between paces. 

Pig Iron folded his arms, “Well, that certainly helps your case.”

You take a step closer to Pig Iron, “Has anything we’ve said come off as remotely threatening? Tell me, please. Because it is in our programmed to defend this city, and that includes ensuring that our physical forms do not impede the safety of its inhabitants. As such, there is no basis for us to be restricted from basic road access. Tell me, you haven’t heard us say anything remotely threatening, have you? I haven’t threatened you with words like: ‘I will rip your limbs out from their sockets and stab you thirty times in the chest’, correct?”

He takes a step back. “H’what?”

You step forward, closing the distance between you and Pig Iron. “I am telling you that you have no need to worry about, officer. You will never hear us say or do anything akin to: ‘I’m going to shoot you in the back of the head while you are consuming fuel with your flamilias and take every measure to ensure you die hated by everyone who knows you.’”

Pig Iron stares at you in disbelief.

“Sorry, I’ll be more specific. I am telling you that we would never rip out your optics crack your spinal strut in half, and—"

Megastorm realizes what is being said, and frantically grabs you by the shoulder, pulling you away. “Alright, that’s enough. I think we’ve established that we are free to traverse this street as long as we remain in robot-mode. Officer?”

The bewildered Pig Iron snorts in surprise. “Yeah… yeah you’re free to go. Just… watch it, okay?”

Before you can say anything in protest. Megastorm guides you by the shoulder down the walkway and around a street-corner. Meganet seems to be holding in a chuckle behind you. Your tank of an associate only releases you when you are out of sight from Pig Iron, and forcibly turns you around to face him. “What the hell, Megatron?”

“I was simply defending my rights. They can’t touch us for that.”

“What makes you think you can speak to an officer of the law like that?”

“I try all things; I achieve what I can.”

“If the Magister finds out about this then my ass—look at me—my ass will be glass, and you don’t want me to even begin to describe what yours will look like.”

You gesture back to the street where you encountered Pig Iron. “I don’t care. That pig was interfering with our primary task. He had no right condescending to us like that—and at least I didn’t stand idly by while he insulted Meganet.”

“Damn!” Meganet whoops at Megastorm. “Is he always like this when you guys go out to see the town?” 

Megastorm ignores her, “If yours truly didn’t force myself to step away from that prick then there would have been a blood-bath. You know that I am capable of—.”

“Just shut up,” you wave a hand at him and pick up your pace so that you are ahead of the others, “I’m tired of speaking to you now.”

Megastorm clenches his fists and grits his teeth furiously as he follows behind you. That’s how it was always going to be. 

Meganet gestures excitedly to one of the massive, skyscraper-sized telescreens hovering in the sky. Displayed upon on it is the trailer to some film featuring a pair of military-grade robots clashing. 

“No one ever told me how big the telescreens are out here. And look, the trailer for Starformers 2 is out!”

Megastorm sniffs, “Don’t get excited— we’ll have to wait until its downloadable for the bunker. Stupid Autobot theatre laws…”

Meganet interlocks her digits and places them on her head. “Man, when was the last time we even had a movie night? Those were great, why did we stop?”

“The Magister doesn’t like them if they don’t bear any strategic value,” Megastorm said.

“That’s nuts. It’s not like we have anything else to do when we aren’t being called up like this.”

You look back at your flamilias and frown, “I will never comprehend how the two of you can simply sit around and watch that drivel. There’s always something better to be occupying your time with.”

Meganet scoffs, “It beats what you do every day.”

“Explain yourself.”

She grins at you in her typically sardonic way, “You spend like every day wandering around in the Underworld, dude. Most bots that fought in the Underworld Rebellion would have had PTSD from that place, instead, you keep going back there like an abused spouse. Seriously, ‘Tron, people think you need help.”

You resist the urge to beat Meganet into the sidewalk for even suggesting such a thing. “I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Besides, this is Styx. The Underworld is far easier to access here than in Tarn, so why would I waste the opportunity to experience it for myself firsthand?”

“No offence, but it is the Underworld,” Megastorm said. “I thought people only went there if they had a death wish.”

“Need I remind you that our creator currently lives in the Underworld?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t count,” Meganet chimes. “It’s not like it has much of a choice in being there, anyway.”

“I can’t stand the way you call them an ‘it’,” you say, shaking your head bitterly at the notion, “At the very least identify them with a more dignified pronoun.”

“Why? It’s always telling us that it prefers being called ‘it’. Besides, they don’t have TV down there.”

It was astounding to you how ignorant they could be at times. “Having the privilege to witness your heritage firsthand is worth any risk. And that is implying risk is even a factor for Elite Guardsman such as us. Frankly, I’m disappointed that neither of you have shown the least bit of interest.”

“I just prefer the less energy-expensive route,” Megastorm says.

“Yeah, and the Underworld doesn’t have TV, either.”

You gaze back at the telescreen and watch the robotic actors brawl in their ridiculously flamboyant way, “None of these films are what I would consider accurate representations of the Golden Age. Not in the slightest.”

“Tell that to Starformers 1!” Meganet says, “The main guy is a Decepticon who changed sides to the Autobots and wins the war for them.”

“Sounds trite.”

“No way, that actually used to happen all the time. It’s the only reason the Autobots won in the first place. Even the Magister was a Decepticon frame before he became an Autobot.”

You roll your neck and groan at the need to explain yourself over something so trivial. “Every Overlord approved film follows the same basic formula and sports the same illusion of complexity. It’s borderline propagandic. People aren’t complex for changing their convictions, it just means their convictions weren’t very strong to begin with. If you were to travel underground and see our heritage; you would see how complex our society truly was before the war.”

“Can’t be that complex. You know they don’t have TV down there, right?”

Megastorm looks as if he’s about to slug Meganet. “Look, I’m with you, but it’s really starting to get annoying how you won’t drop this whole TV thing.”

She raised her palms, “Hey man, I’m just happy the Decepticons are getting representation in media at all.”

Somehow, despite Meganet’s constant preaching, you had nearly forgotten about her new choice of allegiance, and what that entailed. “You identify as one, don’t you?”

She nods and taps at the sharp, angled sigil at her chest. “Of course, I do, everyone in the Elite Guard should. The Decepticons were all manufactured as military hardware. That’s what made them Decepticons. They all had the same bodies, the same programming, and the same serotonin triggers we have. Only real difference is they ruled the planet, and we don’t.”

Megastorm shook his head dutifully at Meganet. “I will never understand how you think identifying as the Overlord’s ancient enemies is a good idea. But then, you never did know when to sit down and shut up, so go off and get shot I guess.”

She raised a single digit in response. “There are robots looking for solutions to the Overlord problem all over the planet. Bots like me and the Face of the Decepticons are the only ones willing to give our solution a name. You go in big, and you go in biting, or not at all. You need to stand out, otherwise, no one will listen to what we have to say.” She activates her communicube and begins playing a holographic video for you. “Look, listen to what The Face says. I know how that sounds but just do it. Listen to The Face.”

Megastorm bats at the air, as if to swipe the hologram away. “Don’t even show me that, I already feel the need to tip-toe around the Magister just from being in the same unit as you.”

“Then don’t watch it,” you snap. You position yourself so that you may attain a better view of the communicube. “I’ve heard you mention this one before, but I never found the time.”

“Probably because you’re too busy dip-sticking around in the Underworld.”

“Shut up and play the video, Meganet.”

Megastorm frowns at you, “Really, Megatron? You too?”

You shoot him a sideways grin, “We live in a free country, don’t we?”

The hologram emitted a single purple image of the Face of the Decepticons. The angular sigil Meganet would wear on her chest. The voice that emitted from the cube was heavily modified by a vocoder to cloak the speaker’s identity. While interested, you despise the degree of anonymity that this “Face” had exercised to protect themselves. It seems cowardly. 

\---

Interlude II

Face the Facts by The Face

Fact One: We exist in a society in which our master Overlords bear the physical structures of Decepticons, but have been so heavily programmed by their Autobot predecessors that the cerebral ambition-drives, which once allowed Cybertronian culture to flourish under Decepticon rule, has been replaced by restrictive Autobot protocols preventing them from ordering, let alone allowing themselves the possibility of expanding our united nations beyond its current geography or level of progress. 

Fact Two: This antiquated notion of developing a line of Autobot/Decepticon hybrids to lead our combined races has proven to have inflicted long-term effects on our Overlord’s cerebral processing capacities due to their clashing programming. The walking contradictions that is our society’s monarchs cannot continue to function, as it restrains our councils from dealing with the existential threats currently plaguing the Cybertronian race.

Fact Three: The dissemination of Matrix Flames among the people has resulted in an untold population boom following the last Great War. This lack of moderation, being the direct result of Overlord Godmaster’s attempts to follow his misguided belief in the freedom of reproduction for the people without any consideration of the consequences, has resulted in famine, overpopulation, and periodic economic recessions. Each of which has cost the lives of thousands of Cybertronian citizens and left tens of thousands crippled and homeless.

Fact Four: While the conquest of another nation is not within anyone’s interest—the Overlords’ fears of globalization and further conflict has resulted in the allowance of tragedies such as the Underworld Rebellion, as perpetrated by cast-out Galaxy Convoy twenty years ago, and the development of sporadic, revolutionary factions across the surface. Though we agreed to a treaty with the Convoys’ various underground city states, rather than initiating cooperation with them, if not demanding well earned land or spoils, we have given up the opportunity to access resources that may have prevented such a famine from occurring in the first place.

Fact Five: Indeed, we are experiencing the first true famine in Cybertronian history and, without change, it is estimated that more than half of the Overworld population will die of starvation within the next fifteen years. While most of us were born under Autobot rule, and know nothing else, the truth is that the Autobots have only ruled for 1/998th of the time the Decepticons controlled Cybertron before the war. Though the Autobots ruled before that— in that instance it was due to the theft of power from the Decepticons before them as well. The pendulum-like nature of our society’s power-structure establishes the shift back to Decepticon power as an inevitability that must be expedited. Furthermore, evidence has shown that under Decepticon rule, our combined societies have experienced grand technological leaps, the structural developments of various colonies, and a reputation as one of, if not the most advanced planet in the galaxy. Much of this progress was lost during the rise of the Overlords, and in widely dispelling our warrior culture—in addition to the rights of our military caste, our modern descendants of the Decepticons—we have been subjected to a world of stagnation, rather than that of true cultural development.

Fact Six: The debate as to whether space-borne colonies and sun harvesting truly existed during Decepticon Era Cybertron is immaterial. We must initiate a space-race regardless if we are to appropriate the energy required to save our race from ruin. Though our leaders will argue that we must prevent ourselves from harming organic life—they fail to understand that these life-forms may only continue to function by consuming other organic life-forms—perpetuating a cycle of death among themselves. And yet by their standards, we are considered “Artificial Intelligences”, or, “objects”, due to our origins of being “built” rather than “evolved”, in addition to the programmability of our individual personalities. As such, the use of organic materials as fodder for our own lifespans cannot possibly be ruled out when the survival of our race is at stake. We allow the hunting of turbofoxes for sport—why would we allow creatures that are already doomed to consume and devour themselves at an unnaturally fast rate impede us in our quest for survival?

Fact Seven: We cannot afford to wait for the Overlords to die of old age before deciding on a replacement Government. We must plan now, or face extinction. We must cross the gargantuan crevasses which separate us from the rest of Cybertron’s surface. We must recolonize the Underworld, rather than use it as a receptacle to dump our criminals and POW’s when our prison systems fail. We must work with foreign nations, and assimilate their cultures into our own. We must adapt accordingly. We must never again allow our nations to be ruled by the senile, nor the mentally impaired—not during an extinction-level event—not during the Golden Age—not ever. The world should not be governed by multiple rulers. Let there be one ruler, one king. We must return our seat of government to Decepticon power or succumb to extinction.”

\---

Back to You

When you settle your gaze upon Megastorm, you discover that he, too, appears utterly entranced by the words of this Neo-Decepticon broadcaster. 

Meganet pockets her communicator. “Tell me he’s just blowing exhaust. I dare you.”

Megastorm sighs, and shows her his palms, “Alright, so fine, he has some salient points. I’m still not going to go around wearing his web-icon on my chest. That’s just asking for trouble.”

“Well? What about you?”

You poke the Decepticon badge on Meganet’s chest and frown, “Does anyone else in the Guard wear that sigil aside from you?”

Meganet seems suddenly distraught, angry, and alone all at once. “No. There isn’t. I think I’d know if there was.”

You must admit—rather you almost hate to admit— that you agreed with essentially everything this “Face” had to say. You can almost taste how close this speaker is to reaching the people. All The Face would need is a stronger platform beyond some online channel, and an actual face, rather than a mere symbol to act as a focal point for his movement. The ideas were concrete, but no one would pay him any mind. Not if he continued listing facts instead of appealing directly to people’s sensibilities. Not if he kept up this passionless drivel. He needed to be more than correct to get anywhere, he would need to genuinely reflect the passions of the Cybertronian people. The Face would need charisma. The most he could apparently hope for was Meganet, of all robots, to adopt his sigil. Certainly, there were other rebel groups—some of which indeed identified as Neo-Decepticons—but none had tried to preach a full change of Government under a single, separate faction to the Autobots without coming off as absurd. If The Face actually showed his face, stood by his sensibilities, and had power, perhaps he would have stood a chance at accomplishing whatever he set out to do here. If only the Face’s words were more than a pipe dream. To return to your progenitor’s Cybertron would be an astounding feat to accomplish.

You didn’t see it at first, as you were too in your head (that will change). You have reached your destination.

Megastorm checked his chronometer, “It seems like we’re right on time.”

“Huh,” Meganet tilted her head to the side. “I guess we should go in then.”

You gaze upon the House. A massive black gate surrounds it. Construction materials were left scattered in their yard. It appeared to have been in the slow laborious process of being reconstructed into a cathedral headquarters for the House’s flamilia. 

You think for a moment, then turn to them. “Nah.”

Meganet leans closer to you as if to make sure she heard you correctly. “Nah?”

“Nah.”

Megastorm folds his arms over his chest. “Nah?”

“Nah.”

They exchange glances, confused.

“The Magister never established a timeframe for our arrival. Just for when we had to leave. If we make them wait, it will grant them more time to think about how they want to debate us.”

“Oh,” Meganet says, bringing a thumb to her chin. “You want to psyche them out. Alright. Groovy.”

Megastorm slowly shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

“Let’s let their thoughts simmer,” you say, shrugging.

“They’ll go crazy wondering where we are. What we’re doing.” Megastorm says.

You grin, “I just want to ensure they have all the time they need to prepare for us. Besides, I’m sure they’ll understand how time-consuming it can be protecting their kind from Underworld attacks.” 

You pause, and in unison the three of you laugh until your fuel pumps ache.

Megastorm jabs a digit over to a single-story building a few nano-kliks away. “Let’s mobilize to that oil-house across the street, then. I need something to calm my nerves.”

“Thank God, I’ve been hungry ever since we left,” Meganet says, grabbing her stomach. “You?”

“I am always hungry,” you reply.

Meganet, and after a moment of hesitation, Megastorm, follow. 

The oil-house bustles with patrons of various Styxian creeds and Houses. They holler across the establishment, clang cans of oil together, plug USB sticks and cords into their electrical helms and flash radioactive rays into their optics. You wish you had the opportunity to experience more of this. It reminds you of the Underworld Rebellion—back when the barracks were just as lively, and the oil still flowed. It could be livelier than the heat of battle sometimes… sometimes. The three of you wait at the door to be seated.

“God, this is amazing!” Meganet says, taking out her communicube once more “I gotta save some photos for Meganumb. She’d love this.”

“I’m gonna be pissed if we aren’t seated,” Megastorm mumbles gruffly, scratching the back of his head and scanning the area for a host to seat you.

“There’s some over in the corner there,” you note.

“Whoa,” Meganet was tapping her digits furiously at her communicube. “What. The. Slag?”

You turn to her. You have some vague idea as to what she is reacting to. “What is it?”

“I can’t access any of my online information.”

“Strange,” Megastorm says, then, as if immediately forgetting Meganet’s plight, raises a servo. “Excuse me, garcon! Yours truly would like to be seated please!”

Meganet began swaying back and forth anxiously. “Seriously, I can’t even find my banking info. It’s like its been swallowed by the frickin’ void. How am I supposed to buy my ethanol like this?

“Have some composure,” you say, eager to distract Meganet from the subject. “We’ll cover your fuel for the time being and sort everything out once we return to base.”

“Frag—what if I got hacked? Can Elite Guard personnel even be hacked? Isn’t that some kind of a big deal?”

Megastorm snaps his fingers, “Garcon, who’s a tank need to blow up to get some seats over here?!”

One of the automatic bar taps finishes filling a canister for a patron and transforms into a squat, bitter looking black robot with a flat, foam-coloured helm. The robot rumbles over to your group, polishing his helm with a rag. “Lads—lads and lass, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t seat you.”

“I told you already, we’ll discuss this when we return to base. Don’t make me repeat myself again.” You turn your attention from Meganet to the squat robot. “When is the next open seating?”

He continued to polish his helm, “Er, never, sir. For you, I mean.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Megastorm’s head darts from the bar tap robot to you, “What the hell is he talking about, Megatron?”

You glower down at the mech, who seems to cave in on himself and begin wiping the oil from his helm faster than before. “Well? Answer the mech.”

“Look, mate, lemme just say that I personally appreciate all that you Tarnians have been doing for the city.”

“Praise,” you nod, “Excellent, I love it. Now, what do you want from us?”

“All I want is for you three to not be here right now.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Or ever. You see, my fellas, we don’t serve military-grade robots at our establishment. We haven’t since before you folks even rolled into Styx.”

You exchange glances with the others and laugh bitterly.

Megastorm nods to you, signalling that he would handle it, and steps forward. “I beg your pardon, may we speak to the—”

“I am the owner.”

“Ah, slag. I should’ve known I was walking into that one. Look, I know it’s the right of the establishment to refuse bots like us, but would it possible to let us in as a personal favour?”

“I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

“But you are in charge, yes? Surely if you supported Tarn’s protection of Styx you’d let us stay for a round of oil. Come on, it’s Remembrance Day. Support the troops with some oil, why don’t you?”

“I’m not going to do that, my fella.”

“But—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“G’nus.” He gestures at the other taps and bartenders operating across the room. “Over there are my co-owners G’nur, G’nad, and faithful ol’ G’nucommitadultery.”

Megastorm opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself, and instead turns and slaps you on the shoulder, tagging you in.

The black robot polishes his helm even more ferociously as you take Megastorm’s place in front of the bar tap. 

“I must apologize for my associate. G’nus is it? I must ask you, mechanoid to mechanoid: do you stand by your conviction that we are worthy of respect as protectors of your city, or do you manage your establishment based on the opposite?”

The oil-house is silent as the grave. They’ve begun listening to you now, and you enjoy the attention. Admit it.

“No, not at all. Of course, I support your occupation, good fella. We just don’t have the funds to afford oil like we used to, so we gotta make our refusals where we can. And besides, most of my patrons aren’t quite as receptive to your heroics.”

“How come?”

“Well, sir, you know there are these rumours that you bots are only here for our oil supplies. That the rebellion’s been quelled for over a decade and that there, heh, there are no terrorists hiding beneath our surface. That it’s all a deception.”

“Why G’nus, it hardly seems to be in your interest as an entrepreneur to deny bots your services because of a mere theory. Especially during this famine.”

“There is also the fact that some of you bots don’t process—how should I say this — compassion the same way we do. Now don’t get me wrong; I mean no offence. I know that your programming is yours and that you are who you are to best help you excel in your, ah, field. However, when unfiltered fuel is brought into the equation it becomes something of a health risk for my patrons, no?”

“Sweet Ultima,” Megastorm shakes his head looks away in embarrassment on the manager’s behalf.

“There it is,” Meganet snaps her fingers at you and the robot, “There’s the ‘compassion’ line.”

The stout robot frowns. 

You explain: “The fact that some war-builds have received such programming in the past does not mean assumptions such as these are applicable to us all. We hear this criticism quite often, as you can imagine.”

“Well, it’s still true, isn’t it?”

The entire oil-house has their eyes on you now. So, what will you do? What kind of mech are you at the end of the day? You. Megatron. 

You face Meganet and Megastorm and point a digit at the manager. “You see why I despise Overlord produced media? They tell you the same old drivel that not all war-builds are bad as long as they throw away their convictions and serve the Overlords. These Remembrance Day marches are no better. They deify the Overlords and tell us to feel bad for imagining a life before them. Then they bury our history, so we don’t know what to imagine in the first place. They downplay the accomplishments of our enemies so that we won’t question their effectiveness. They say to worship the military as heroes so long as we are static and forever on the defensive. Put a few Decepticon traitors in positions of power to make you think we’re living in a fair society but refuse to allow further generations of war-builds to excel through laws and restrictions. They say: ‘Oh, yes! We want Decepticon culture and heritage to be represented in our society!’ and then they turn and say 'No, no, that’s just going to scare people away. That’s going to upset our Overlords. No, no, no we can’t do that.’ There is all this rhetoric about military hardware and consumer hardware co-existing peacefully on modern Cybertron, but as soon as nuances inapplicable to their Autobot sensibilities are shared with the populace it terrifies them.” You look G’nus in the optic. He won’t do the same. “And that’s exactly what they intended for those of us designed from Decepticon sciences after the war. To keep us pacified yet isolated from core Autobot society— from any form of executive power. I will never be able to rise from my station. Understand? Even this Face of the Decepticons is afraid of scaring people. I say let them be afraid. You should be guessing as to what’s going through my mind. Because you would never know—you could never imagine what I’m Goddamn capable of!”

“Sir, I must ask you to leave immediately.”

“I’ll ask you again, and I expect you to tell me the truth this time, why?”

“Because by all intents and purposes,” G’nus stops polishing his helm and his optics angle into beady little slits, “You lot appear to be nothing more than a worthless bunch of Decepticon scum.”

You grab G’nus by the shoulders and bash your skull into his cranium so hard that his helm shatters and his nose breaks in two. Black liquids trail from his eviscerated face and ebb from the brow of your own helmet.

The oil-house goes berserk and G’nur rushes to his co-owner’s aid. You reach for him. You are going to strangle him until his neck joints break loose and you can rip his head off like a grease-valve. It would be almost too easy for you.

Megastorm grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you back before you can do any such thing, “Too far, too far!”

Some of the voices from the crowd are begging you to hit him again. 

G’nus trembles with rage as he clutches his bleeding faceplate. “Someone, get these gobshites out of my bar!” 

You scream back at him as Megastorm and Meganet drag you away. “I didn’t watch brave mechs die in the Underworld muck just to be deprecated in public by the likes of you! You will die in irrelevance, you hear me? You fat, bitter, nose-less waste of a batch initiation! Frag you, and your stupid names!”

You are ushered out of the oil-house and taken across the street by Megastorm and Meganet. You hold your pounding helmet and sit down outside the meeting place. 

Meganet clicks her tongue and wipes some of the stains from your helm. She looks up at Megastorm, “Damn, imagine if he was drunk. Are we alright to proceed like this?”

“He’s fine,” Megastorm says, waving the notion away with a servo, “It’ll be different in there than it is out here.”

You can feel your rage more or less beginning to subside. Your head perks to the sounds of shouts and crashing metal from across the street.

“Sounds like you started a bar fight back there,” Meganet muses, sounding impressed. “It’s nice to think we have some supporters after all.”

You remain unsurprised by the violence left in the wake of your mere presence. “I want to make something clear,” you tell them, “once we go inside, the success of this meeting takes precedence over everything else. If either of you are discouraged by my reluctance to sacrifice pride, then don’t be. I am in full control of my faculties. Unless it interferes with my duties as a Tarnian, I simply refuse to let others dictate to me when there is no precedence for it. Nothing will stop me from completing my functions, not even me.”

“Of course,” Meganet says, “We know you, ‘Tron. You’re more soldier than any of us. I was just yanking your pistons.”

Megastorm sits next to you, “Listen, brother. We’ve never not been on the same page. Everything you say—everything you’ve said, I support a hundred-fold. Your power-core just burns at a faster rate than mine. Besides, one of us needs to make sure we don’t just go around giving the Magister reasons to disassemble us into fuel-rods.”

You stand, and Megastorm stands with you. “You’re alright, Megastorm.” You pat him on the cheek, then move towards the House. “You’re alright.”

You pass through the gate and stand in front of the door to the House of Prime. You already know about the scanner emplacement, based on the Magister’s previous correspondence with the Styxian Senator. You press the buzzer, and the machinery activates with a whirr. A beam runs over you, Megastorm, and finally Meganet. A crimson light flashes at the top of the door-frame, and loud, irritant buzzing infiltrates your audio-receptors. A second layer of metal seals the door shut.

You both stare at Meganet.

“Who are you?” a voice crackles through the door’s communicator. “What do you want?”

“We’re representatives of the Magister Militum of Tarn. My name is Megatron. We are here for our scheduled appointment with the Primes.”

“Why did you come armed?”

Meganet leaned forward and spoke into the door’s communicator. “That’ss my fault. I know we were told not to bring any weapons, but I seem to have left my piece on me by accident when we left our barracks.”

“She can wait outside,” Megastorm says, reassuringly.

“Well, she’s certainly not coming in here with a gun holstered to her belt.”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Meganet raises her hands and quickly steps away from the door.

“Where is the Magister Militum?”

“He couldn’t make it,” you say. “We’re here in his stead. My name is Megatron. Nightwatch knows me.”

“Alright. I am turning the scanner back on. But please note that I’m adjusting it to a more thorough setting.”

You exchange a hesitant glance with Megastorm, who squints at the door-frame. “What do you mean a more ‘thorough’ setting?”

The beam scans you once more, except this time several mechanical arms sprout from the door and begin molesting your frames—checking each individual crevice on your bodies to confirm neither of you obtain any form of fire-arm, blade, or bludgeoning weapons which might threaten the Senator, concealed or otherwise. Meganet snickers from afar, and Megastorm glowers back at her.

“You better not tell anyone about this.”

“I definitely will.”

“No, she won’t.” you tell him. The light at the top of the doorframe flashes green, and the doors part to reveal a tall, navy lictor watching you with his arms folded across his chest. He’s about twice the size of either of you. You think you could take him, but you know it would be stupid to even consider the notion. 

“Well, at least now I know you’re not here to start trouble.”

You step inside, the doors closing behind you. The interior of Senator Nightwatch’s mansion of a House is breathtaking compared to the python infested grease-pit of a barrack you live in. Crystalline statues line the main corridor, art pieces made of controlled electrical currents dangle from the ceiling. Paintings and photographs of nature and war are hung on the walls. The furniture is some of the most expensive you have ever seen the Magister pay for. You extend a handshake to the lictor. “Why would we be here to start trouble? We’re here to— I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met; my name is Megatron.”

The lictor refuses your handshake like a smug bastard and peers over your shoulder. “She needs to step at least eight meters away from the property.”

“I’m sure she knows, but allow me to check,” You press your eye against the door’s peekhole and watch her. Meganet fires three blanks into the ground from her silenced pistol as ordered. From the look on her face, she doesn’t quite understand the point of doing this, though the Magister’s orders rarely make sense to anyone but him—such as it was when you work for someone who considers every possibility and require various seemingly senseless actions in preparation for a nigh limitless amount of possible outcomes. Still, you didn’t expect Meganet to understand. She then transforms—leaping into the air, shifting, folding and compacting into her smaller magnet-lock mode. Her form further shifts to adapt to the door unit and successfully clicks into place—locking the building from the outside, just in case. “She’s gone.”

The lictor moves you aside and looks through the peephole to confirm for himself that what you’re saying is true. Satisfied that he couldn’t see her, he turns and calls out. “They’re here, Prime.”

The gold-plated Pater Flamilias of the House of Prime emerges from his study at the end of the main corridor. Senator Nightwatch Prime follows closely behind. Sentinel was large for the average Autobot—perhaps larger than you and Megastorm put together. Nightwatch was no slouch himself and his impressive physical frame reflected that of a professional athlete. White flames were painted against the contrast of his black and blue limbs. Sentinel’s voice is gruff, yet had a naïve, unknowing tone accompanying it, “You’re late.”

You bow your head to him and Megastorm follows suit. “Our sincerest apologies, Prime.”

“I was hoping to speak to the Magister in person,” Sentinel says, sternly. “I do not recognize either of you.”

Nightwatch steps in, “These are Megatron and Megastorm. They’re the ones I have been negotiating with for the past six orns.”

“I see,” he turns his back to you, hands clasped behind his back, and proceeds down the hallway towards his office. He addresses his lictor from over his shoulder, “Remain by the door. I don’t want any interruptions—unless it happens to be Hot Rod attempting to complete his move, I suppose.”

“You’re sure?”

“With luck, he’ll want to enter immediate stasis after his long trip from Iacon.”

Sentinel beckons you to follow him down the corridor, and so you do, gazing upon the art-pieces adorning main corridor. Megastorm points at the familiar image of Tarn’s supervising Overlord in one of the portraits His tall tank treads and antlers reaching out of the frame. His grimacing face is rendered perfectly, however. 

“Hey, you hung up that portrait of Overlord Prestigious the Magister gave you.”

Nightwatch nods. “I have all of the Magister’s gifts on display.”

“Funny, I never took him for someone who appreciates art.”

“He most definitely does not.”

“Those flames are new,” Megastorm says, leaning forward to get a better look.

Nightwatch lifts his arm to give you a better view of his new paint decals. “Indeed, these were from the Magister as well. As were these,” He unsheathed a pair of arm-blades from his wrists.

“Impressive,” you say, genuinely. You trace the intricacies of the blade’s carvings with your optics, appreciating the endless work put into such a weapon.

“Put those away, Nightwatch,” Sentinel snaps, “All these precautions about safety and protection and you start waving your sword arms around. Typical.”

He sheathes the blades, appearing to be somewhat guilty. “Right. Sorry.”

Sentinel shrugs at Nightwatch, as if to say, “better you than them,” and opens the doors to his – once Nightwatch’s—office. 

Sentinel sits at his desk, and Nightwatch takes his side. “Close the door behind you.”

You see no point in telling him you were already moving to do so. You take Megastorm’s side across from the two Primes.

Sentinel interlocks his fingers and places them upon his desk. “I apologize in advance for any interruptions which may occur.”

Megastorm sits up, “Interruptions?”

“Our Iaconian housemate Hot Rod is on his way from Iacon as we speak. He will be moving in with us starting today.”

“You’ll see why he’s apologizing if you end up meeting him,” Nightwatch says.

Sentinel harrumphed, “If there was ever a time for us all to be one, it would be now. Hot Rod is no exception to that.”

The tank turns to you, “We won’t be long, will we?”

“I doubt it.”

“Regardless, I thought it would be best that you should know.” Sentinel’s says.

“Prime,” You lean forward, hands clasped before you, “Let me begin by thanking you for allowing us into your home. We would like to reiterate our gratitude to you as well, Nightwatch, for your endless support of Tarn’s occupation in Styx during this time. Without your votes in the Senate, we wouldn’t be able to defend Cybertron—Styx included— from the very real threats incubating beneath our feet. We wouldn’t be here without your support, so thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Megastorm adds, “Endlessly grateful, we are.”

“Please,” Nightwatch says, batting a servo at you, “the Magister has been more than generous—”

You speak, “As such, the Magister has been troubled by the rumour that you intend to withdraw your vote during Styx’s next senate meeting.”

“So troubled.” Megastorm riffs. It has already become quite tiring hearing him reiterate your statements, but you understand that it is all he can do to feel important at this time.

“I see…” Nightwatch lowers his head, in what could be seen as either shame or confusion.

“The Magister simply wishes to know the legitimacy of these statements, and what, if true, prompted you to come to this decision. Please don’t be alarmed, we can handle a breakup. Megastorm here has experienced enough of them in his time.”

“So many breakups,” Megastorm says, frowns, and turns back to you mournfully. “Why would you say that, brother?”

“We just want to hear your take on it,” you say, ignoring him.

“Let’s not waste time,” Sentinel says, pressing his palms against the table’s surface. “Yes. Nightwatch is withdrawing his support of Tarn’s military occupation of Styx. I don’t know how you found this out, but it’s true. I will be doing so as well with what little influence I still hold.”

You shake your head. This was not good. This was only going to complicate matters for the Magister, and by extension, you. “Would you care to explain?”

“I have already discussed this with Nightwatch, but let me reiterate what I told him. Tarn’s compensation towards us in exchange for our support is not worth the price the outer cities must suffer. We are bordering on Kaonian levels of decadence. The technologies the city has developed are now being distributed to Tarn in exchange for your protection. Our hard-earned oil—during a famine, no less—has been predominantly distributed to Tarn in exchange for your protection. Our economy feeds Tarn, rather than the Styxian people, all for your ‘protection.’”

“I don’t need to tell you about the costs of managing a military outside of state-borders, Prime.”

“It’s expensive stuff,” Megastorm agrees.

“And yet you can afford to supply us with this mansion, in addition to all these little gifts and trinkets.”

You raise your palms, “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot, Prime. I’m just a loyal soldier trying to do his best for his country. How my superiors choose to allocate their expenses is their own business. I’m just following orders.”

“And you stand to gain nothing from being here, I imagine,” he scoffs.

“I assure you, Sentinel, this occupation isn’t some vacation for us. Our living conditions as Elite Guardsman have been degrading in the extreme. As a Tarnian war-build—let alone a migrant—we aren’t exactly receiving the praise we would typically expect to receive in the larger states.”

“I imagine that would be because we haven’t received the protection we would typically expect either,” Sentinel retorts. “When I discovered a member of my House had risen to a seat in the Styxian Senate, I was overcome with pride. However, when I learned that the seat was open due to the death of a Senator—one who had previously supported your occupation, no less, my worries began to expand.”

“Yes, he was the result of an assassination by Underworld terrorists left over from the rebellion. The perpetrator was identified as a Convoy originating from the Matros country.”

“According to reports filed by the Tarnian Elite Guard, yes.”

Nightwatch places a hand on Sentinel’s shoulder, “Listen, maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Furthermore, there was the death of the Kaonian bridge master—who also received large sums of wealth despite his lowly position guarding our borders. Styx doesn’t know where Nightwatch’s wealth comes from—but we do, and as such we understand a pattern when we see one!”

You frown at him, finding Sentinel to be more paranoid than you thought. You realize now that it was not Nightwatch, who took these various precautions for his House, but that of the Pater Flamilias, Sentinel. “I’m not sure how to respond to this. If you are upset by the effect our occupation has had on your city, fine. But I can’t sit here and discuss options with you if you stand to accuse an entire city-state of perpetrating murder for the sake of profit. You think Overlord Prestigious would allow something like this to happen?”

Sentinel stares at you, then relaxes, lowers his head, and unclenches his fists. “No. You’re right. I’m sorry—I know that I am being out of line. I’ve always been a staunch supporter of the Overlords and their mission for peace. Admittedly, I have always carried with me some prejudice for your kind. I fought in the war, you see. I know what war-builds such as yourselves are capable of.”

“And you have my respect and gratitude for that,” you tell him, truthfully, “Don’t think that you don’t.”

“Even still,” Sentinel continues, looking you in the optic. “What you are doing here—paying us for our influence—it’s bribery. And these strikes that are being perpetrated by the Convoys, or whoever it may be, are not nearly frequent enough to warrant your continued stay here. For the sake of my adopted city, I cannot allow Tarn to continue to drain it of its resources.”

“So then…” Megastorm says, “what happens next?”

“I know that you are soldiers. I, too, was one, long ago. I understand that you did not choose to be in this type of situation. As such, I will speak frankly with you. From my perspective, Tarn is essentially attacking the outer cities through its military occupation. By tomorrow, Nightwatch is going to testify to the supreme court about what is being done here. The bribery, the resource theft, all of it. Your names, however, will be protected, I assure you.”

You nearly leap from your seat, “Prime, on behalf of the Magister Militum I beg you to reconsider. The penalties Tarn will face—”

“Will be adjudicated with tact, I am sure. Strangely, I feel as though I should apologize to you. Both of you. You did not ask to serve your state in such a disagreeable manner. Still, I cannot afford to stand idly by while this type of injustice continues to plague our nation.”

You turn to Nightwatch for support. 

“I’m with Sentinel on this, I’m sorry,” the navy robot says, “I told him everything because I knew he would know how to approach this.”

You shake your head, “I understand. The Magister Militum will not be happy about this… but I understand where your convictions are coming from.”

“We both understand,” Megastorm agrees, then turns to you, “How are we going to break it to him when we get back?”

“We tell him the truth. What else can we do?”

Sentinel and Nightwatch rise, and you both do the same.

Megastorm extends a handshake to Sentinel. “Yours truly would like to wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours.”

Sentinel reaches forward to return the handshake with a melancholy smile, “As do I. ‘Til all are—”

You leap from your seat and transform—folding, compacting, and shrinking— into your silencer-clad pistol mode and landing firmly in Megastorm’s open hand. Megastorm shoots Nightwatch and Sentinel in the heads in quick succession. Nightwatch’s face is ripped clean off, sparks crackling from the open hole. Sentinel’s brain-matter bursts out the back of his head and stains the bookcase behind him with viscera. Their bodies both crumble back into their seats. The initiation of Plan B, should convincing them fail, has been completed. You did it.

You’ve killed Sentinel Prime.

Your programming releases the pleasure inhibitors—rewarding you for the completion of your assignment with a wave of electrifying euphoria. All other matters in the world stop in that one moment, as you relish the feeling of absolution that overcomes you. As the feeling fades, you return to business, “Find the panel to disable the weaponry detector.”

“On it,” Megastorm activates his electromagnetic sensors within his optics and moves to the bookcase—carefully stepping over Sentinel Prime’s motionless corpse as he did so. He removes a datapad to reveal a small key-pad. 

“Do you know the code?”

“The visual range of yours truly can detect which keys have been pressed due to their indentations.” He tapped at the keypad, and a ding could be heard. “Impressed?”

"Not really."

He carries you to the door, kicks it open, and proceeds down the main corridor. Sentinel’s lictor stares at him, frowns, then notices your gun-mode, and the oil-splatters in Sentinel’s office. “Oh my God!” he immediately turns around and tries to open the door to escape. To get help. He keeps trying, but the door won’t budge.

Because Meganet has the door locked from the other side.

“Open, dammit—open! Help! Somebody! Help!”

Megastorm aims you and fires, blowing the lictor’s head apart with a single clear, purple beam of light. As the lictor falls forward, slumping against the doorframe, Megastorm tosses you into the air and you transform—expanding into your full-sized robot mode once more. You press a digit to the side of your helm. “Meganet, come in.”

“Meganet reporting.”

“No, I mean come inside. The security system has been shut down. You may enter with your weapon now.”

“Oh.”

She emerges from the door and closes it tightly behind he, nearly tripping over Sentry’s body in the process. She whistles at the crime scene, “Damn, Tron, you really didn’t save any for me, did you?”

“We’re not done yet,” Megastorm says, “Throw me your pistol, hurry.”

She tosses her pistol to him.

“By the way,” Megastorm says, “On your left, Nightwatch has a portrait of Overlord Prestigious in his foyer. Take a look, his antlers don’t even fit in the frame!”

She turns her head to see the portrait and scoffs.

Megastorm shoots Meganet in the side of the head. The laser-blast goes straight through, leaving a small bullet-hole in her cranium. The magnet-lock stumbles and falls over. Her body spasming violently as her systems try to register what had just been taken away from her.

“Nice shot,” you chide.

Megastorm throws his hands in the air in frustration. “I can’t believe that didn’t kill her! She got it in the side of the head—I must have missed her brain-module by inches!”

Static and creaks emit from Meganet’s semi-functional voice-box. “ept—cns—rv—r...”

“If you were going to miss, you should have at least shot her in the mouth. That would have shut her up.”

You approach your dying flamilias and beckon Megastorm over. “We can’t leave her like this in case that “Hot Rod” fellow shows up and she’s still functional. Hold her still—she might just be incapacitated due to shock.”

He kneels down, grabs Meganet by the arms, and forces her to sit up. You grab her pistol from Megastorm and place it in her weakening grasp. You place your own hand over hers, and manipulate it to simulate her shooting herself in the head. You need to align the pistol with the already present bullet-hole so that this murder-suicide seems legitimate, and Styxian forensics won’t be confused as to how Meganet could have lifted her arm to ensure the shot to her head was fatal, after already terminating her ability to do so. You cradle her head and tilt it into the nook of your arm, so that the bullet-hole there aligns with the bullet-hole in the doorframe behind her. 

Static continues to spill from her vocal processor. “Dc—tc—on—fr—vr.”

You move her arm to place the gun to the side of her head and force her to pull the trigger. Her body recoils and slumps against Megastorm. Her dead optics seem to be staring right through you, but you feel nothing.

There. Now, not only will no one know that Tarn is wrapped up in a conspiracy dedicated to ensuring that the city-state survives the famine, but the Styxian police force won’t go out searching for potential perpetrators when they already have one. And as all record of Meganet has been wiped clean from the Overworld’s databanks, it will be assumed that she is in fact an Underworld agent, sent to kill off those who are in support of the Elite Guard's occupation. Now, in response to this tragedy, Tarn may continue to aggregate energy and finances from Styx to combat the famine, and the Magister won’t have to worry about anyone exposing their dealings to the Styxian Senate. A job well done for the Megas—the most technologically advanced group of stealth assassins ever developed by the Tarnian military.

Megastorm stands. “We should go before that Hot Rod guy shows up.”

He will be subjected to quite the housewarming, you muse. You notice the Decepticon sigil on Meganet’s chest. If found, the badge’s existence would forever be associated wia brutal murder and The Face of the Decepticons would be deemed a force of terror, rather than a solution. Whatever potential that may have resided in his movement would crumble. This was not necessarily a bad thing, but it seemed somewhat counterintuitive for you to allow him to take the fall in such a manner. You have always been impressed by the Magister’s ability to think seven steps ahead. Perhaps you should do the same. You pluck the Decepticon sigil from Meganet’s corpse and hold it to the light. You’ve realized something funny about it.

“Are we leaving now or what? What are you doing, Megatron?”

You are rising.

Yessssss….

With a swift flick of your wrist, you crush the Decepticon badge between your fingertips, removing it from existence.


End file.
